


Never Look Back (and catch 'em all!)

by Everlind



Category: Homestuck
Genre: (yes you read that correctly), Alternate Universe - Pokemon Fusion, Gen, Humanstuck, Pokemon AU, Pokestuck, Slow Burn, mind the category being 'gen', think snugglebros
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-16
Updated: 2016-09-17
Packaged: 2018-01-12 16:45:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 49,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1192437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Everlind/pseuds/Everlind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Karkat meets John on Route 3 when they’re thirteen years old. One day he’s gone, leaving Karkat to wonder for years what happened to that annoying little asshole who always won.</p><p>Years later he runs into not only John, but also Dave at the Pokémon Center in Anistar. John and Dave are travelling to become Pokémon trainers -and ultimately try for Champion. They ask Karkat to join them. </p><p>It’s a story about three teenagers (who are idiots) who travel with Pokémon (who are also idiots) and how they stumble from one harebrained scheme into the other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Oh no. That fucking moron is there again. Shit, Okay.

 _Don’t make eye contact, don’t make eye contact, don’t make eye contact, don’t make eye contact, don’t make_ \- AH FUCKING SHITTING DICK GARGLING  _HELL_  you’ve made eye contact. 

“Hi Karkat!” John says, accosting you. “D’you want to battle?”

Why? Seriously. Why? When you first moved to Aquacorde it was an easy, pleasant trip to go and see Sollux in Santalune. And then this douchebag showed up. Showed up and never fucking left again, at that. Seriously, what the fuck’s up with that? Doesn’t he have a  _home_  to go to? It’s like the only thing he ever does is camp out on Route 3 and wait for you to come by so he can kick your ass with his dumbass Whimsicott .

(why didn’t you bring Scizor? It’s just you, Krabby and Kabutops and John’s got a grass type. You _know_  he does. You know it and you still brought not one, but two water types. Should’ve brought Scizor, you’d have kicked the  _shit_  out of him with Scizor. You never think this shit through).

“Not today,” you grunt out, prying at the long bony fingers wrapped around your arm. “I kind of have shit to do, unlike some brainaddled shitsniffers who apparently have nothing better to do than simply stand around and bother poor assholes who are just minding their own fucking business.”

“Oh,” John goes and he just sort of -wilts. Blue eyes going down, shoulders hunching, fingers slipping away as his arms fall limp to his side. “Okay. Have a good day!”

NgghHHSSFFS ARGH. WHY. FUCK.

“FINE!” you snarl.

John jumps, blinks and then grins widely. Bounces on the balls of his feet. “Really?! Aw man, that’s awesome, oh boy, this is going to be so fun! I’ll take it easy on you, promise.”

Liar.

He kicks your ass. Twice.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This all began with one prompt for a request meme on tumblr -which is why chapter one is so short. However, then it evolved into an actual AU.
> 
> Original prompt: JohnKat as pokemon trainers <3
> 
> For those interested in more Pokéstuck verse tidbits and randomness (such as how Dave acquired Caledfwlch, or who does the chores) feel free to visit my [Pokéstuck tag](http://everlind.tumblr.com/tagged/pok%C3%A9stuck) on my tumblr. Likewise, if you have questions of your own always feel free to ask them (IC asks are also welcome).


	2. Chapter 2

The first time you see John Egbert after nearly two years you don’t recognize him. Even though you’re standing right next to him.

You’ve just walked up to the counter, pokéballs cradled in the crook of your arm and tired as fuck. Past you is the biggest, most mind numbingly stupid goddamn  _idiot_. You’re pretty sure Route 18 is one of the puniest, shortest routes in Kalos and yet somehow you managed to get spectacularly lost near those fucking mines.

Fuck. You’re exhausted. Can’t imagine what your poor team must be feeling like, holy shit. And why the  _hell_  is the Nurse not at her fucking station? Your Pokémon really need healing, because even though you’re tired,  _they_  were the ones to take on all those inconsiderate turdnuggets wanting to battle (what’s up with that? go home, get a fucking life or something). Not to mention the grass around the mines was infested with wild ones.

You’re tired. You’re dirty. You’re angry.

And then  _this_  fucking douchebag next to you all but elbows you aside when the Nurse re-appears from way back in the Center to lean over the desk and get her attention.

“Hey asshole, watch it!” You snarl, scrambling to keep all your pokéballs from clattering towards the floor.

Visibly jumping, he looks down at you as though he didn’t even notice there was someone there. Both of you stare at each other.

In two years he shot up about a goddamn mile, grew out of most of his baby fat and commenced a depraved love affair with a local whirlwind judging from the state of his hair. His eyes are still the same solid blue behind the square frames of his smudged glasses and he still looks like the total loser he used to be. Especially when his mouth drops open in an artless ‘o’ of surprise when he finally acknowledges you.

He’s— John’s  _crying_.

You’re left gaping most idiotically yourself when he turns away to ask in a choked, anxious voice: “How is she?”

The Nurse smiles kindly. “She’ll be right as rain in the morning. Chansey is personally seeing to her.”

“In-in the morning?!” John grits out. “Is it that- is it-  _why_?”

“We just want to make sure she’s all better, don’t worry,” the Nurse says soothingly, patting John’s pale, clawed hand on the desk. “Why don’t you and your friend go outside to get some air, hm? There’s a wonderful café! Or you could go see the sundial, I bet it looks really pretty now that the sun’s setting.”

For a moment you think it is you she is referring to with ‘you and your friend’, but then you notice someone putting a hand on John’s shoulder to gently -but firmly- pull him away. 

“C’mon, bro,” Dave Strider says. “Can’t do nothing but what the nice nurse tells us to, alright?”

His eyes find your shocked, gaping mug through the shades. If he’s surprised to see you, it doesn’t show. A pale brow arches.

“-don’t want to go anywhere, Dave. I wanna stay here in case-“

Dave cuts over John’s distraught babbling. “Then we’ll stay here, no big. C’mon, you’re blocking the counter.”

You’re left staring after them as they sequester themselves on the sleek couches in the left corner. John looks like a man defeated and Dave is sort of awkwardly pat-pat-patting at his hunched shoulder.

“How can I help you?” The Nurse suddenly singsongs right in your fucking ear.

You nearly drop your pokéballs again. Dammit.

They’re healed and happy in less time it’d take you to scratch your goddamn testicles and you can’t help but wonder what went so wrong for John’s Pokémon to be wounded so terribly that a spin on the healing pad can’t fix.

It’s late. Through the slatted windows the sun streams in molten gold, gilding the floors and spilling over the furniture so it feels you’re caught in a half-remembered dream. You came to Anistar for the sundial, actually. You’ve been doing some research on the Mega Stones and it seemed like a good place to poke around for more info. You should leave before it becomes too dark.

You  _can’t_.

Not with John huddled and collapsed in on himself.

Shit. Fuck.

Gritting your teeth, you walk your useless carcass over there. The leather creaks under your ass as you sit down. Dave looks at you over the top of John’s head -nods. 

“I’m gonna get some food, kay?” he says to John, squeezing his shoulder. “You babysit his ass, Karkat, alright?”

“No,” you growl.

“Fuck you, Dave,” John mumbles tiredly.

“Don’t get into trouble now,” Dave tosses over his shoulder as he lopes out.

Yeah, you run Strider. You fucking run. Shit. Wonderful. Just wonderful.

Silence. You pick at the ragged skin around your nails. Shift a little. Two girls enter the Center and walk up to the counter. The Nurse greets them. The blue screen reveals Leafeon, Doublade and Shuckle. They leave again. Next to you, John sits up and leans back until his chin is tipped towards the ceiling, black hair spilling backwards in a messy tangle. His Adam’s apple wasn’t this pronounced last you saw him. Tear tracks have left clear trails ribboning over his cheeks. He’s covered in dust and smells like sweat and terror.

“Hi Karkat,” John says, eyes still closed. His lashes are spiked together. “You got tall” —pointed pause— “-er.”

Asshole. You elbow him. “Yeah, laugh it up, shitstain,” you say, settling back yourself. Breathe in, breathe out. “You were suddenly gone,” you tell him softly.

Both of you had been thirteen when you first met. You saw him almost two, sometimes three times a week after that. Always on Route 3, always asking you to battle— always winning at that, the brat. One day he wasn’t there and you’d genuinely panicked. Because you thought he’d gotten into some trouble. Got lost in Santalune Forest, maybe, and got eaten by an ambitious Caterpie, kidnapped by a band of rogue Pikachu -anything was possible with a loser like John. 

After hours of searching you still hadn’t found him. Had to bitterly conclude he just up and fucking left without saying bye. You’ve always wondered where he went. You were so angry, too. How hard is it to say goodbye?! Always intended to punch him for making you worry like that, too. Right now, looking the way he does, though… yeah no.

“God, you’re a pitiful sight,” you tell him. John’s lips quirk minutely. “What happened?”

“I nearly got Liv killed,” John says. His eyes slide open slowly. Stare sightlessly at the ceiling.

You frown in confusion. “What? Your- your Buneary?”

John nods and tells you how he and Dave had been on the road for three days straight. How they were headed to Anistar to take on the Gym Leader (ultimately they want to challenge the Elite Four -that’s just typical. You roll your eyes a little). How he -with a whole team of understandably exhausted Pokémon- decided to pit his Buneary against an Ace Trainer. Which, okay, is pretty fucking dumb. He never uses Liv to battle, really, so it’s plain imbecilic to go and try take down an Ace Trainer with her. On the other hand, that’s no fucking excuse for the Ace Trainer to nearly slaughter a dumb kid’s Pokémon ‘for daring to think he stood a chance’.

Fuck.

“She was bleeding so much,” John concludes. “I’ve never seen one of my Pokémon bleed. It was my fault. The worst thing is that- that she didn’t want to quit, she just hung in there because-” he dissolves into tears again, shoulders shaking.

Jesus, hell no. “Okay, stop crying, fuck,” you tell him. Fish around in a pocket for a crumpled tissue, grab his dumb face by the chin until he fishmouths as you soak up the tears on his face. “So you fucked up, it’s true. Now you gotta suck it up, asshole.”

 _Dammit, Strider, you are so fucking dead_ , you think furiously. You don’t know how to fucking deal with this. You hope he gets shat on by a Wingull. 

And that’s the part where John sniffs, blinks and leans into you until his tear-streaked face is hidden in the crook of your neck  _he’s warm, salty, lanky John_  and SHIT.

Uh. 

Now what.

“There, there?” You try, petting his hair. It’s stiff and coarse with sand. 

John stays there and you hold him gracelessly with hands you’re not sure where to put and a face you’re not sure where to point and wait for Dave to come back. Which he does, about a whole god fucking hour later. Asshole. Carrying a plastic bag over his wrist and giving you a thumb’s up when he spots John sprawled asleep half into your lap.

You flip him off.

“I’m going to fucking kill your for this,” you hiss (quietly, don’t want to wake up John).

“You’re welcome,” Dave says, plunking down at your other side.

“I hate you,” you say for good measure as he forks over a sandwich and a carton of AJ. God, you’re hungry.

“No you don’t,” Dave says.

He has to help you eat because John’s clutching your other arm against his chest and half laying on it. You probably get some crumbs into his hair. Not that it matters, because it was a lost cause anyway. The Nurse brings over a blanket. Meanwhile Dave tells you about all the dumbass shit the two of them got up to the past two years on their harebrained quest to become  _the bestest Pokémon trainers eva_  (morons).

And then he falls asleep on your other shoulder. Fucking yay.

Leaving you to sit there pondering the train wreck that is your life. Seriously, how did this happen again? Fuck past you with a taco truck in his crusty rear end. Repeatedly and with vigor. Damn it. You twitch the blanket higher and settle down for a long night.

Miraculously, you actually fall asleep at one point.

 

You’ve never slept better.

*

Next morning you wake up to John all but screaming in delight and shaking you awake and clambering all over you like an overexcited Growlithe because Liv is, in fact, perfectly alright. At which point he dissolves into tears yet again and cries into your sleeve a little. What a loser. Dave stands at a safe, John-free distance, pretending he’s chill as fuck (but he’s totally smiling a little). They’re  _both_  losers. 

You finally part ways near midday. You towards the sundial, the two of them heading for the Gym.

“You should come with us,” Dave says. “Try the League. You wouldn’t do half bad.”

“I’ve got no badges,” you point out.

“Moral support then!” John says, grinning.

You don’t know why your chest feels so heavy when you say: “Thanks, but, no thanks.”

They leave with promises to keep in touch (you do actually punch John’s shoulder with a dire warning of:  _you’d fucking better_ ). And then you’re left standing alone out front of the Pokémon Center, wondering why you feel like you missed out on something amazing. On the other hand, playing at being a Pokémon Trainer with those two dweebs? Please. You’ve got more important shit to do.

As you cross the walkway towards the sundial, you can’t help but notice how the sun lights it to a brilliant, shining cluster. Its flushed pink is gorgeous against the wide glittering expanse of water stretching beyond it and for a moment it honestly takes your breath away. 

Right now, to you, it is just a stone. It will always be just a stone if you don’t have a ring. You came all this way, you realize, to see a shiny rock. Well, it sure is fucking beautiful. But. Damn. The only way to ever return here with something fucking useful to do is to get a damn Mega Ring. And the only way to ever hope getting one of those rare as fuck trinkets is to- yeah. Okay, shit.

You turn on your heel and begin sprinting at top speed back where you came from, into town and towards the Gym.

“Wait up!”

 

You never look back again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those interested in more Pokéstuck verse tidbits and randomness (such as how Dave acquired Caledfwlch, or who does the chores) feel free to visit my [Pokéstuck tag](http://everlind.tumblr.com/tagged/pok%C3%A9stuck) on my tumblr. Likewise, if you have questions of your own always feel free to ask them (IC asks are also welcome).


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Detailed info on the boys' teams: [Karkat](http://everlind.tumblr.com/post/79800274680), [John](http://everlind.tumblr.com/post/79800284118), [Dave](http://everlind.tumblr.com/post/79800294622)

The first thing you see when you wake up is hair. It’s black and it’s right in your fucking face. Up your nose and in your mouth. You spit it out. _Ptbleh_. Nice. Not.

Muted. Cocooned. Strange comfy isolated. You lie blinking sleep out of your eyes for a moment, fragments of dreams clotting your already muddled brain. Can’t figure out whether you’re cold or warm. Both, a little. It’s this all permeating awareness of being encased in ice, something heard of in the sharp-edged stillness at the periphery of your awareness. Basically it is fucking freezing. Worse, even, than yesterday. Goddamn. This truly is the shittiest tent ever. The edges of sleeping bags ever so slightly frosted over, forming a delicate filigree that pisses you off big time -seriously, you’re one fucking step away from waking up a human popsicle.

John snuffles in his sleep. You crane your neck back -can’t go very far because Dave’s face is all but adhered to the nape of your neck. With your luck he’ll have drooled and is currently frozen stuck to your skin.

Both of them react to your minute shift by burrowing closer. John curls up against your front, top of his head under your chin, face planted in the collar of you sweater and body a loose crescent. Liv is buttoned into his hoodie, cradled between both your bellies. One of her ears tickles your jaw, furry and wonderfully soft. Against your back -Dave. He’s. Yeah, the asshole is spooning you, tucked as close as he can -one long line of contact- with a lanky arm draped over your waist, hand stretching out to include John in his grasp.

It’s a Karkat sandwich. 

You’re. Shit. Pretty okay with that, actually.

Both of them are warm. You feel sheltered. It’s nice. Cold (heh) honest truth? This wasn’t something you expected, but when the lot of you ventured onto Route 19 and it got so damn cold at night your bones ached, this was a very welcome solution. Despite all the dumbass taurusshit you were exposed to beforehand, even. Because _of course_ there had to be a slew of suggestive asshattery before either of them finally shut the fuck up and went to sleep. You think that circus was mostly for your benefit as well as to protect their fragile egos. No way they survived this long on the road and through two winters at that even, without having shared body warmth before.

Whatever makes these losers feel better, you suppose. 

As long as this can be a thing. 

You’ve never been particularly close to your family. Like not at fucking all, obviously, with your dad and brother lost in Unova preaching their backwards Pokémon Politics to whomever brain-addled enough to want to go the whole fucking nine yards and have their last shrivelled shreds of brainpower _talked_ into full blown and permanent brain coma. However well intended, you’re so not fucking interested. Worlds of no. But that left you here, in Kalos, with Jack. And Jack’s. Well. For all that he’s your uncle it’s… it’s _Jack_ , okay? Not exactly a paragon of physical affection. Which is totally fine with you- it probably runs in the family. Still. Ms. Paint’s motherly hugs are just about the only experience you have in the field of human intimacy. 

And now here you are, stuck in a tent in the middle of nowhere, half frozen and with two warm bodies against you. The effect is decidedly otherworldly and it feels as though you and John and Dave and the Pokémon are the only creatures in the whole wide world, like you could walk on forever and not meet a single living soul.

The idea isn’t nearly as frightening as it ought to be.

Not with the sensation of John in your arms and the Buneary between your bodies, not with the faint rasp of Dave’s breath against your neck. Yeah okay, five more minutes. Hmm. You settle down again, burrowing into the shared warmth. John huffs a sleepy noise across the hollow of your throat and Liv turns around in the swaddle of his clothes, one paw kicking at your hip.

You doze a while, heavy and relaxed, idly wondering if elbowing Dave to stop him wheezing the way he is would be worth all of his bitching. Become aware of the fact that you gotta piss instead and decide fuck this taint rotten shit, you better heave your useless carcass up.

You do so.

Worst fucking idea _ever_. Maybe you should ask Dave to knock you out with Caledfwlch’s pommel, just get your miserable life over with. 

God fucking shit it is cold. Your shivering exhale mists sparkling before you, settles like pricks of ice on your lips. Holy shit. Careful you slither out of your warm hollow, movement impeded by the numerous layers of clothing you’ve got on. Three pair of socks, two sweaters, pants. John’s waddled into his beloved plaid monstrosity, Buneary and all, while Dave has a knit cap pulled low over his head. Both of them roll into your warm spot, knocking foreheads with their momentum. There’s mutual grunts, some rustling and then they settle close. 

More rustling. Your Absol inches after Dave, settles against his back dutifully -keeping him warm.

“Good boy, Malik,” you murmur, reaching to stroke the heavy ruff of his neck. You get a sleepy fluting hum in return. 

Right. Okay. Pee. Your dick is going to freeze the fuck off, you just know it. Scoot on your ass towards the back, struggle into as many clothes as you can, yours or not, who fucking cares, get your water proof pants on, find gloves. You track down two, they don’t match (black -yours; red -Dave’s), but you put them on any way. Reach for the zipper of the inner tent. OK. Second one —oh. Fucking fuckshit. 

That explains it. Snow. A fuckload of it. Enough it has piled up high against the nylon and you have to shovel it away as best as you can before you can crawl out. Some of it collapses inwards regardless. Christ.

You flounder outside.

Uh.

Wow.

The snow’s generously ankle deep. You stand, trailing a flabbergasted half-circle in it as you gape around. Everything is white. Fresh. Pure. Gorgeous.

In the hazy light of dawn you face a shimmering world. White, white, white. Rock and leafless trees reach for the rosy sky in stark contrast, casting blue violet shadows like dusted amethysts. The sun is waiting just beyond the horizon, you can see its excess glow spill over, but for now it’s shadows and half forgotten stars.

You breathe in deep. The air bites on the way down.

Too goddamn bad it’s so cold. Bah.

You fumble your Pokéballs with your thick mittens, but manage to release your gang after a few attempts. They plop into the snow. Scizor blinks, leans down to inspect the snow and then screeches most indignantly.

“Everyone’s a critic,” you grumble. “Yeah, snow. Say hi and get up close and personal with it. It’ll be around for a whi- hey, you idiot, no stop! Oh my fucking god, don’t! Holy fuck. Stop screeching at it, you big scarlet disaster. Marowak stop hitting it, it’s not even alive you dumbass. No, Shouty. Shouty! Don’t eat it, oh god. You’ll get sick. What did I just say? Just. Stay put, don’t fucking cause a local catastrophe while you’re at it. I’ll be right back. Shouty stop eating it!”

You perform the quickest piss in a lifetime (you deserve a medal for a performance like that) and hurry back. Shouty hurriedly closes his mouth and swallows convulsively. Your team. Seriously. 

“I saw that,” you tell him pointedly.

Sheepish blink.

You sigh, roll your eyes.

It takes you three times as long to prepare food for the Pokémon. Yours have eaten and the sun is creeping up the sky when you hear soft murmurs. Fucking finally. You sit in unmoving, straining to catch the distinct but muted chatter of John interspersed with a few monosyllabic replies from Dave. Can’t hear what they’re talking about. So you push yourself up and march over towards the tent. Zip it open and poke your head in.

“I’d started thinking the combined fumes of your asinine existence had at long last reached critical levels,” you tell them. “Seems I was mistaken. More’s the pity.”

“Good morning Karkat,” John manages through a yawn. Liv, still chilling within the confines hoodie, mirrors him. At least they’re sitting up. Dave’s a indistinct shape underneath the pile of sleeping bags, random clothes and whatever else the hell the three of you could find to use as cover. 

“Strider,” You poke at his leg. At least you think that’s his leg. Hard to tell with all the layers. 

No reaction.

John’s looking down at his friend with a peculiar expression. “We’ll be along right away,” he murmurs.

Right. Fine. What the fuck ever.

Liv squirms and John helps her out by popping a few buttons open. She totters towards you, slipping over the pile of fabric clumsily with her stumpy legs. You hold out your arms and swing her up and out when she reaches you. Grab John’s dorky bandoleer and Dave’s belt while you’re at it so you can release their Pokémon as well, beckon Malik to follow you.

To his credit John soon comes trotting over to help you with feeding and grooming. Scizor wants back in his Pokéball before long, apparently utterly convinced the snow is out to get him. You let him, if only because his incessant shrill shrieks make your teeth hurt.

“Karkat,” John says as the both of you shovel some lukewarm oatmeal into your mouths.

You grunt.

“We should turn back.”

You choke. “What?” You manage, after horking up spit, food and confusion so convulsively you can consume your meal all over again. Ergh. Yum. Fuck.

John’s staring narrow-eyed at the sky. It’s clear and crisp. The tip of his nose is nipped pink from the chill. “It’s best if we turn back. There’s a storm coming.”

“What?” you repeat like a broken record, incredulous. 

This is when Dave joins you, _fhwumping_ down next to you in an excess of clothes. His shades are on crooked.

John is frowning at the contents of his bowl.

You gather a semblance of coherency. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me, right? Is this a joke, Egbert? Cause it is in dismal taste, even for you. We’re halfway and, correct me if I’m wrong, you’d prefer to hike back -which will take us two whole days all over again, instead of sucking up your whiny shit, borrow half a spine from Dave and press on. We’ll reach Snowbelle in three. Seems obvious to me what our best bet is.”

“Our best bet is back to Couriway, dude,” John says. “You don’t want to walk right into that snowstorm.”

There you both go again. Shit. God fucking shit, _why_?! Seriously. You’ve lost count of his many times you and John have bumped heads like this in the past two months. Both of you are natural leaders and while it is true that John is a lot more laid-back about it -suggesting rather than commanding- he’s actually the one who takes charge. Has gotten used to having his way, too, after two years of traveling with Dave. It occasionally causes a certain strain between you both. Like now.

And John has this way of making a face, this expression (stubborn, confident and the slightest bit hurt) that just _AUGH_ pisses you the fuck off.

“How the hell do you know it is going to storm anyway?” you point out.

Shrug. “I just do.”

You throw up both hands. “Of course,” click your tongue and turn towards Dave. “What do you think?!”

“Leave me out of this, bro,” he says, huddling over his breakfast. You haven’t even seen him eat a bite.

“Couriway or Snowbelle, you decide,” you insist.

“Snow in both directions,” he shrugs. “’s all the same to me.”

“We’re pressing on,” you decide.

John’s jaw tenses.

Half an hour later you’re breaking down the tent when he joins you, catching your arm at the crook of your elbow. Liv is in the sling on his back. Her dark eyes regard you solemnly from over his shoulder.

“Hey,” he goes, speaking softly but hurriedly as he ducks his head towards yours. “Listen, we really _really_ should turn back, Dave’s not doing so well.”

You blink. “Dave?”

“I can tell,” John says. 

Dammit. “That’s the only thing you ever have to say,” you grumble. “John, for fuck’s sake. If we make haste I bet we could hit Snowbelle in two, maybe two and a half days. I know it’s cold and it sucks, I get it. But turning back is a waste of resources, not to mention a waste of time. We’ve made excellent process.”

“I know that,” John tells you, voice going airy and tight with exasperation.

His frustrations sets off yours. You know you’re right.

“Dave’s a big boy, he’ll call uncle when he needs to,” you snarl lowly.

“Karkat—“

“Am I part of this or not?” you snap at him, because, fuck. Dave Dave Dave, John John John. But Karkat who? _They_ asked _you_. Wanted you to travel _with_ them. Yet John keeps overruling your opinions, trampling them roughshod simply on a half-baked whim caused by sense of instinct or whatever the hell he calls it. It’s probably indigestion at that.

“Of course you are,” John says. There’s a certain quirk to his brows, a flicker in his eyes that, _ah_. That stung him. 

You instantly feel like an enormous heel. Get all the more contrary for it, because you are a goddamn waste of space and can’t get this shit right, have to ruin it even if it might still be salvageable. You pull your arm out of his grasp.

“We’re pressing on to Snowbelle,” you say. “And that’s final.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those interested in more Pokéstuck verse tidbits and randomness (such as how Dave acquired Caledfwlch, or who does the chores) feel free to visit my [Pokéstuck tag](http://everlind.tumblr.com/tagged/pok%C3%A9stuck) on my tumblr. Likewise, if you have questions of your own always feel free to ask them (IC asks are also welcome).


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Detailed info on the boys' teams: [Karkat](http://everlind.tumblr.com/post/79800274680), [John](http://everlind.tumblr.com/post/79800284118), [Dave](http://everlind.tumblr.com/post/79800294622)
> 
> NOW WITH TRAINER SPRITES BY [PI](http://thepioden.tumblr.com/)! CHECK IT OUT!

You wake feeling like absolute shit. The ache of utter exhaustion is draped all over your battered body. You hurt. Sore from your feet up, legs and calves, along your spine to grind the phantom weight of your backpack into your shoulders. The skin of your face burns from being exposed to the cold elements, your lips are chapped raw. Stiff, you shift a little, groaning softly as your right arm explodes into pins and needles. Dave’s laying on it.

Dave.

He feels warm. Much,  _much_  too warm even as he shivers in his sleep.

Not good.

You open your eyes slowly and even that hurts; they’re sensitive from facing the blinding snow all day, paired with too little sleep. It’s still dark. White blond hair this time. Fine and straight. It clings to your face like down, catches on the ragged edges of your roughened lips painfully. Your exhales come out misty puffs. Dave is slack with sleep in your arms. Tucked up behind him, you’re pressed as close to him as you can to keep him warm. On the other side; John. Dave’s head is nestled under his chin and he’s huddled close to him the same way you are. Enough so that your and John’s noses are nearly touching over the top of Dave’s head. 

Malik’s draped over your legs, a long sinuous silhouette in the gray light of pre-dawn. Liv is a ball of fur against the nape of John’s neck.

Four days ago, this would’ve trickled a bright burst of something warm and shivery-quick in your chest, might’ve allowed yourself to drift off again if only to enjoy their closeness a little longer. Now there’s only the grimy sensation of guilt coating along the back of your throat, a slick gritty trail of dregs sliding down to the pit of your belly to form a cold, hard brick.

Your fault.

John’s arm is looped under yours, his forearm snug between your belly and Dave’s back. There’s tension in his muscles. Awake. You look at his face and find his eyes already waiting.

Dave’s lungs rattle harsh and wet. The medication you carry with you is a standard staple for travelling supplies -it can force his fever down a little, but it can’t fix whatever’s making him sound like he’s about to wheeze out his last breath. He needs a doctor.

“We have to reach Snowbelle today,” John whispers, barely audible.

He’s right. You don’t say anything, just press your mouth hard against the back of Dave’s head, trying to keep yourself calm.

“You gonna go zombie on me, Karkat?” Dave mumbles -you hadn’t felt him waking up. “Kudos on your excellent taste in brain matter, man, but you gotta give me at least the token chance to run away screaming, you know? Gives you the time to work up an appetite and I can be the blond bombshell covered in sweat whose clothes get strategically ripped as I blunder away from civilisation and into a spooky dark forest, cause it wouldn’t be any fun if marched up to Officer Jenny and went all: ‘hey so like my best bro became a brain eating zombie and he’s trying to eat my brains, the way brain eating zombies do, crazy bastards, so if you could just shoot the sucker in the head—“ as he rambles you can feel his lungs slog down with mucus and pain, can feel him try to plow through it even as his voice draws taut and rough, until it finally stutters wet and thick into the back of his throat and he has to either cough or fucking choke on it.

Dave coughs.

It’s horrible. A long spell where you can hear his chest do this hollow, alien barking, like a Sealeo. Hell, you can feel it, a rattle deep enough to travel all the way to the pit of your own chest as he fights for air and chokes on the raw bursts of noise that tear at him. He struggles upright. You and John follow him, hands soothing on his back and utterly useless. 

He’s sweating by the time he finally stops, panting for breath and cheeks flushed with fever. He stinks, too. Granted, neither of you smell like goddamn daisies here - not after six days on the road in a snowstorm with no chance to properly bathe - but Dave smells  _sick_. 

“You okay, buddy?” John asks and you just want to smack him. Obviously he’s not fucking  _okay._ (your fault)

Instead of a snarky comeback Dave just slumps sideways into his childhood friend. The look on John’s face is painful to look at, so you don’t.

(your fault)

 

*

You reach Snowbelle in the early evening. 

The snowstorm only got worse the closer you got to the city, probably egged on by the cold air coming down from Frost Cavern. Sheets of icy snow whip in a wild flurry around the three of you. Dave’s on his feet solely because each of you have an arm of his draped around your shoulders. You’re pretty sure he’s got no damn clue what’s happening or where he is, he just keeps walking because he’s been told to.

The city looks abandoned. It’s practically buried in snow. You make out some indistinct shapes that are houses, but other than that you’ve no idea what you’re looking at. It sprawls out pretty far; it seems to be a city of considerable size. A gust of wind buffets you in the back, lifts trails of snow piled on top of the roofs up and into the air like shredded veils.

“Right then,” John goes, hitching Dave up.

You wonder how the hell he expects to find a hotel in a labyrinth like this, but you keep your hideous trap shut -it’s what got all of you into this disaster in the first place.

The answer is that he doesn’t. He doesn’t even head downtown, at that. No, John deposits Dave into your arms and walks up to the first farm you pass at the outskirts of the city (you wonder what the hell even grows in these conditions). Knocks on the door. And, well, does his John thing. Which is to produce a bright, winning smile -just the littlest bit sheepish and contrite at the edges- and direct it full force at the old man appearing in the tiny open crack of the door.

It fucking works.

You can’t hear what he’s saying, the howling wind snatches his words away, but he barely has to talk for a few minutes doing his boy next door routine and then he’s gesturing for the both of you to come closer.

Holy shit.

If you’d tried that they’d have slammed the door and called the Jennies. You don’t even have it in you to be bitter about it, shit, you want to be inside and sheltered. Not only does the old man provide you with lodgings, he allows you use of his whole attic. It’s dusty as hell and the far side has bales of hay stacked against the wall, but there’s a sleeping pallet and even a space heater -not at all the first time this man has taken someone in.

You dump Dave onto the pallet and set about to try and get everybody comfortable. John’s conversing in rapid, hushed tones with your host, hands sketching along with his words. He disappears down the stairs, leaving you to get settled. The heater is one that runs on oil, which is a fuckload safer than anything else. You plug the thing into a dubious-looking socket and begin stripping out of your wet jacket posthaste.

You were given clean bedding and towels, so you make the bed and bully Dave out of three layers of clothes and under the sheets. You’ve gone into auto-pilot; you may be shivering hard enough for your teeth to rattle, but you get everybody out of their Pokéballs and make themselves useful. Having a possessed sword at your disposal is handy as fuck - you tell Caledfwlch to chop up the hay along with Scratch, instruct the rest of them scatter it evenly along the floor so they have bedding to rest on.  

Just as you fish out a pair of dry and relatively clean pyjamas for Dave, John comes skidding into the attic again, a wild grin baring his teeth.

“Karkat, take care of Liv,” he says, zipping her out of his heavy waterproof parka and setting her on the floor.

“John, wha-“

“Go on, sweetheart,” he tells her, nudging her gently into your direction. 

After weeks of having a Buneary totter towards you, it’s pavlovian to open up your arms to receive her. “John,” you repeat as you cradle his Pokémon against your front. “Where are-“

“I’ll be right back!” John announces and he’s gone.

“-you going?” you trail off, bewildered. 

 

*

 

One hour turns into two. 

Dave’s tucked in bed and entirely much, much too  _still_  to your liking. You check to see if he’s breathing over and over again. 

“Dave,” you say.

Nothing. Back of your fingers to his forehead, his cheek. He’s burning with fever. Poke his shoulder. No reaction. Where is John? You’re restless with worry. What the hell does he fucking think he’s doing? Dave’s sick. You  _need_ — fuck, you need him here. But noooo, John’s merrily out and about in a snowstorm, doing god knows what, probably getting himself injured or killed while he’s at it, leaving you and Dave… you and Dave. Leaving you behind.

Again.

Can’t even go and search for his idiot ass this time, not with Dave as bad as he is. Can only wait and watch Dave get progressively worse. The medication is useless to help him, it can alleviate his pain, but not help with rattle in his chest. He needs a doctor. Shit, you’d cart his ass to a Pokémon Center if you could, have him dosed up to his eye sockets with whatever’s strong enough to level a goddamn Donphan if it’d only help him.

You listen to his laboured breathing and wonder if John’s okay, if he’s lost and cold, in need of help - your help.

All you can do wipe his hot face with a cold, damp cloth and wait.

*

You’re helping Nakodile get settled closer to the heater so he can stay warm. Snowbelle is no place for a Krookodile, dammit, poor thing. He’s been snapping at the other Pokémon in agitation and you were barely in time to prevent a fight between him and Regisickle.

“Alright, shoosh, you great brute,” you murmur at him. Nakodile opens is great, slavering maw and snaps at you. You thwap him in retaliation. “I said calm your great scaly ass! Sit the fuck down, have a Poké Puff and behave yourself before I dump your two hundred pounds of ornery attitude out of a motherfucking window, are we clear?”  

Perplexed blink. You lift an eyebrow at him. Nakodile sits down.

“Yeah, that’s right,” you grumble. “You fucking better,” pap his head gently and offer him a Deluxe Poké Puff - Sweet, his favorite. 

Just as you’ve got it presented on the flat of your hand and Nakodile is ducking down to snatch it up, John barges in, startling the both of you.

You nearly lose a fucking arm.

“Hey!” John goes, stumbling inside with a gust of cold wind. Nakodile slinks back moodily. John trails snow everywhere. He’s back. He’s okay. He came back. 

Relief hits you hard. Centre of your belly and the front of your chest unknotting all too sudden. Leaves you reeling, too light, too abrupt and it is  _so_  much easier to focus on your anger. Allow your eyes to jump over his person, no injuries, nothing that betrays he encountered some sort of trouble -anything that might explain his absence. Gone for nearly three hours with no way for you to reach him - all alone in a snowstorm. you. are. fucking. furious.

“Where the  _fuck_  were you?” you demand - your voice slips out low and vicious. All the Pokémon go tense, reverting to hunt-or-be-hunted mindset just like that (you feel like the world’s worst asshole just for that).

John stumbles to a stop mid-stop and he does exactly the same damn thing as the Pokémon: go all quiet non-threatening. Even his hands are up, palms facing you, all placating. His blue eyes are wide, surprised. 

“Hey, calm down,” he goes and you just—  _can’t_. 

“Calm down? You’re gone for three hours in a snowstorm to do, what, exactly? Stick your dick in a pile of snow? Lick a lamppost? Slide around on the ice like the harebrained imbecile you are? I’m sure you had a blast, dickwipe, but I needed you  _here_! You can’t just up and abandon us whenever-“

“Hey-“ John interjects, voice gone low,  _angry_ , and you involuntarily take a step back. His face is stony and his throat bobs convulsively as he stares at you with wide, gleaming eyes. “You know what? Fuck you, Karkat. Here!” he tosses his backpack at you.

John possesses considerable upper body strength so you hastily grab for the bag before you loose some teeth. It’s heavy as hell - you totter into the bed and sit down hard.

Heavy silence as you face each other from opposite ends of the room, you shellshocked, John breathing hard.

John was that boy you met one Route 3 when you were thirteen years old. He always,  _always_  smiled at you. Sure, he was a jerk, but you were a bigger one. No matter what, no matter when or how many times you yelled at him, he always came bouncing back with a cheerful ‘hi Karkat’ the next time you met. John’s not smiling now. He’s just a kid, all of you are, but he’s gone cold and narrowed eyed, hands curled into fists. 

“At least now I know what you really think of me,” he says, the words ever so carefully eked out, restrained.

And. Oh.

 _Oh_.

“John-“

He’s turning away from you. “Liv,” he calls softly.

The Buneary slips past you as if you’re nothing, air, not someone who’s carried her and fed her and groomed her and played with her. She runs to John and he picks her up.

They leave.

Throat locked up and hands shaking, you open John’s backpack. Food and… and. God, oh no. Fuck. Stupid idiot, you’re such a stupid goddamn piece of shit. Carefully tucked away you find medication and not just painkillers. Antibiotics, syrup, inhaled bronchodilator, herbal tea, the works, with instructions scribbled onto the boxes. Anything Dave could need.

You are the world biggest asshole. It’s you.

Shit.

* 

“I don’t wanna.”

“Too fucking bad.”

Two days and a house-call from a doctor later and Dave’s coherent enough to be a complete fucksqueak. You are happier about this than you should be.  

“Dave, you reek like mouldy feet. I’m going to hurl if I have to come within touching distance and the geyser of vomit I’ll bring forth will be positively delightful compared to your body odour. I will have Regisickle drag your pale flabby ass out of bed and into the shower, hell, I’ll even have him wash you. Just think about that, Strider. Those pincers near your hideous, fungus encrusted husk. He might just accidentally snip something off, wouldn’t that be a disaster? Actually, I am  _loving_  this idea already!” 

“Dude, I’m sick,” Dave mutters. He sounds ridiculous (dood ihem zik). He looks ridiculous: all puffy-eyed and pasty. The fever’s down, but not gone, and he’s got two bright pink spots on his cheeks as though an overzealous Mr. Mime went to town on him with the rouge.

“Dude, I don’t give a shit,” you counter. “Get up.”

“John would ask nicely before threatening the Strider jewels, you big bad bully,” Dave mumbles and, okay,  _ouch_. “Where  _is_  John anyway?” he adds, squinting in confusion. The whites of his eyes are watery and shot red, it rather looks as if his irises melted a bit.

“Who cares?” you mutter and, yeah, Dave’s totally ripe, but you help him to his feet anyway.

“He was here last night,” Dave mumbles, swaying precariously as soon as he’s standing - you rush forward to catch him. “I should know, he drooled on my shoulder. It was gross.”

John. You swallow, curl your arm around Dave’s waist so he won’t keel over and snap his skinny neck. God, he’s thin. Okay, one step. Good. Another. Fucking yay, this is record breaking shit right here. Five more hours and you’ll have reached the door. Wonderful.

“Karkat.”

“No,” you snarl.

“Karkat,” Dave repeats. He’s taller than you, so he has to point his chin at the top of your head when he addresses you - you don’t meet his gaze. Set your jaw mulishly instead. He wobbles and you grunt under the sudden increase of weight. The two of you lumber onwards like a pair of drinking buddies attempting to find the way home after a particularly alcohol-sodden night.

“What.”

“Okay, so I know I was kinda out of it, but are you two  _still_  having duel of who can spritz the most urine at each other? If that’s a resounding yea, then please just give it a damn rest before we’re drowning in a pissocalypse.”

You don’t answer. What’s there to say? ‘I kind of went and shat all over that puddle of piss, because hey, I fucking ruin everything good in my pointless existence?’ Yeah, no thanks. You set your jaw.

“Holy shit,” Dave wheezes.

You suppose that’s as an accurate summary as ever. 

And you’re such a goddamn shitstain on the blue damn earth you feel only half guilty for being relieved Dave’s too out of breath to pursue the topic any further. You don’t even know what to fucking say if he would.

The bathroom is old and tiled in an atrocious pastel pink with a border of cavorting Igglybuff. You’re weirded out just standing in it (felt even weirder when you were naked and showering). Dave’s skin is clammy with sweat from traversing just this short distance, you have him perch on the closed toilet lid while you struggle with getting the water running at an acceptable temperature.

“Alright,” you say, gesture at his person. “Strip.”

Dave lifts an eyebrow. “Oooh, man. Busted. Must’ve been waiting for this moment ever since Anistar, dreaming of the day you’d be able to corner poor sexy little Dave alone and pantsless. It’s okay Karkles, I understand,” he mutters, stands up on legs as wobbly as a newborn Deerling —and nearly crashes into the sink. Jesus. You steady him by propping him against the sink and strip him out of his (no doubt ironic) footie pyjamas. He’s all ribs and hips. (your fault)

Urrgh. “You stink,” you tell him.

“I’m so flattered,” Dave goes. “Makes a lady feel all appreciated.”

“Get in the damn tub, Strider.”

“Smooth talk-eeaAAH!”

He nearly rips the curtain off its hinges as he slips. You facepalm. If you have to scrape Dave’s brains from a row of happy, dancing Igglybuff you’re going to stick your head in an oven. 

*

That night you lie next to Dave, listening to the faint rasp of his breathing while you try and stay awake.

John returns well past midnight, slipping inside like a breeze of wind. Through the grimy window the night is clear and star-strewn, it has stopped storming. In the light of the moon you watch John move around through the shutter of your lashes and over the sharp jut of Dave’s shoulder. 

Before tending to his own needs he cares for his team - the way you trash talked the both of them into doing when you first joined. Brushes Chomper’s fur the way you taught him to: long steady strokes. Checks Gusts’ wings by spreading them out with careful hands - traces the primaries. Feeds them and adds the special supplement you suggested to Cotton’s bowl. Makes sure they all have a spot to sleep, gently cajoling Nubby to scoot aside a little to make room. 

Hand-feeds Liv, while sleepily munching a heel of bread, eyes drooping. Slips into comfy pyjamas and approaches the bed.

Quickly you shut your eyes, try to relax your muscles, slow your breathing. The mattress dips as he crawls in on Dave’s side.

“John?” Dave slurs.

“Yeah,” John answers. “Go to sleep.”

“Okay,” Dave goes and slips away again.

You say nothing. You lie awake and wait until John goes slack and his exhales come slow. That’s when you curl an arm around Dave’s waist and carefully settle your fingers against his arm.

 

You miss him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those interested in more Pokéstuck verse tidbits and randomness (such as how Dave acquired Caledfwlch, or who does the chores) feel free to visit my [Pokéstuck tag](http://everlind.tumblr.com/tagged/pok%C3%A9stuck) on my tumblr. Likewise, if you have questions of your own always feel free to ask them (IC asks are also welcome).


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Detailed info on the boys' teams: [Karkat](http://everlind.tumblr.com/post/79800274680), [John](http://everlind.tumblr.com/post/79800284118), [Dave](http://everlind.tumblr.com/post/79800294622).  
> [ Terezi's team](http://everlind.tumblr.com/post/87414230943), [ amazing Terezi art](http://everlind.tumblr.com/post/83657202326) by [femchef](http://femchef.tumblr.com/)  
> Trainer sprites for the boys by [Pi!](http://thepioden.tumblr.com/)!

“Karkat.”

“No.”

“So I was thinking.”

“Lies and slander.”

“You’d look cute in a nurse uniform.”

It might be just a little too early in the day for a refreshing bout of gruesome, vindictive murder, but you reckon you can free up some time in your oh so busy schedule. Half a minute later sounds good, right between being bored out of your skull and being bored out of your skull some fucking more.

“Really? I was just thinking you’d look cute with your head shoved up your shithole while wild Mightyena feast on the pallid flesh of your bloated buttocks.”

“Aw shucks,” Dave says, blowing on his cup of tea. “Just think about it, man, we could glide our asses over to the Pokémon Center and borrow a spare from nurse Joy.”

You give him a look.

“I know it’d make me feel better.”

“Why don’t you wear it then?” you growl at him. Fuck, blargh, what an image. Urgh. Soap please, you need to wash your brain.

“Karkat please,” Dave rolls his eyes. “I’m the patient. Here I am, tragically handsome and helpless, yet I remain unmolested.”

“I could tell Shouty you’ve hidden some snacks in your clothes,” you offer. 

Across the room, Shouty’s head shoots up and he begins to slaver spontaneously. As well as copiously. Ew.

“Down boy,” Dave tells your Exploud hurriedly. “Yeah, no, that’d be too much molesting. I am a delicate Southern flower after all. All unspoiled petals, supple green stem and quivering leaves. Gotta be a gentleman, you know. Some sunshine, a sprinkle of fertiliser, maybe a song or two, tell me I’m the prettiest thing to ever grace your garden, wear a nurse outfit. You know, the usual. Is that too much to ask?” 

“Dave, I wiped up your barf for three damn days in a row, don’t be such a pissbaby and drink your tea before I pour it down your nostrils, you ungrateful fuck.” It rolls off your tongue with more vehemence than the situation calls for.

Dave does a slow blink. His eyes are still bloodshot and prone to watering, but his fever finally broke nearly six days ago. Since then you’ve done nothing but look after him while he rested and tried to regain some strength. Dave has got to have the shittiest immune system ever. He makes being sick an art form. You wish it was one of his ironic schticks, but no. There’s still bouts of coughing, but at least he horks up phlegm instead of just choking on lungfulls of mucus and sickness.

You want to go outside. Dave wants to go outside. Both of you are _bored_. The Pokémon are bored.

John… John’s still angry with you. Not Dave’s fault. It’s not fair to take it out on him, but you’ve never claimed to be fair or nice. Still.

Urgh. You sit down on the bed. If you don’t get to go outside soon your spine will dissolve from disuse. They’ll have to scrape you up and drizzle you into a bucket. Might still make a career out of being weedkiller, maybe even a wonky type of Repel if you’re feeling ambitious. Go out with a impotent sizzle and nauseate a bunch of Pokémon while you’re at it. Best you can hope for at this rate.

Dave, bless his gruesome carcass, knows you better than to take much offense. Or if he does, he just deals with it. And hey, wow. When Dave Strider becomes the most mature individual in the group, you just know something’s gone horribly fucked up beyond belief. Shit.

At least he doesn’t apologize. You’d get angrier if he would. “So, hey,” is all he says instead. Under the blankets, his toes tap your thigh.

“Hey,” you return, voice just the littlest bit contrite. 

“I was thinking.”

“Again with the barefaced lies.”

He ignores you and ploughs on: “I’m most likely sorta probably and totally a lot ready to do the outside thing. You know, the thing with the fresh air and nature? I’m up for that.”

Giving a pointed glance along his prone, bed-ridden form, you raise a brow. “You still look like a lot down to me.”

Dave smoothes a hand along the mattress. Pats it. “This bed has been good to me. Served me through my troubled and difficult times. Sure, it was as lumpy and unforgiving as a Camerupt’s rocky back, complete with the double volcano get-up, spewing lava and all. Seriously, my spine is on fire, it is beyond hope, you’ll have to buy me a Ponyta to ride into the sunset cause I’m not getting up and walking straight after this, but hey, I ain’t complainin’. But I need to move on, man. I love the bed, but I’m ready for bigger things. Like snowflakes. And mittens.”

“Right.”

“Oh please, oh please, daddy, I just want to go outside and _play_.”

“Ahem.”

Right. Of course. Reluctantly, you turn to look over your shoulder. 

John hovers near the door. His right side is crusted with snow. At first you think he’s holding a giant snowball, but then you realize it is Cotton. Covered in, well, snow. You don’t ask. Not that he’d answer. He’s not even looking at you, really, just at Dave. 

“Should I come back later?” John asks. “Cause I could, you know, if I am interrupting something.”

“No, it’s cool,” Dave says. “Now you’re here, we can play house. You’re the mommy.”

“Uuuh…” 

“We are really really bored, man,” Dave continues. “It’s fatal. My last wish is to breathe the chill as fuck air.”

“Oh,” John goes and sets Cotton down. The Whimsicott hobblerolls towards the heater, leaving a white trail in its wake. John follows along. “You think you’re healthy enough for the great outside, dude? Cause there’s snow. Lots of it. And if you’re not feeling it, it might be better to wait a few more days to be sure instead of going out and risk getting worse. Again.”

Easy for him to say. He’s not been stuck in an attic for nearly two weeks with a bunch of agitated Pokémon and neurotic, word vomiting douchebag in shades. Who sometimes simply vomited. A lot. Not that John wasn’t making himself useful. Money had to come from somewhere and between Dave being sick and you looking after him, there was only one person left to go and battle. John. Which he did. Every single day.

“John, buddy ol’ pal. I am so ready,” Dave tells him. “You have no idea.”

“Alright,” John concedes. “No gym!” he adds, wagging a finger. 

“Boo,” Dave deadpans. 

Yeah, no gym sounds good. If anybody has a Beartic on their team and it so much as snorts a little too vigorously Dave’ll be blown away. Even though you’re pretty damn okay with that right now, you’ll feel guilty after. Plus he and his Pokémon need to train a little to get back in the swing of battling after such a long spell of inactivity.

Also…

“We could go to the Wandering Woods,” you point out. Casually. Just a suggestion. No ulterior motives here. None whatsoever.

From the corner of your eye, you can see John open his mouth, breathe in and just close it again. You wish he’d just be angry at you. It’d be easier if he were, you could deal with that, fuck, you _deserve_ angry. Being ignored by John, well, that hurts. A lot. 

There’s a godawful hiccup in the conversation, because both you and Dave are waiting for John, who obstinately refuses to talk to you. For a split second, pure annoyance flashes across Dave’s face, tightening his lips and the corners of his eyes. 

“I second this,” Dave eventually drawls, gesturing with his mug at you. “Kinda wanted to see if this girl I know still lives there.”

“Wait,” you go. “Redhead, blind and batshit insane?”

“Yup.”

“How do you know Terezi?”

Dave wriggles until he’s sitting upright and actually smiles. “Used to date her.”

Shit.

*

“Pretty sure we totally took a wrong turn somewhere,” John says. “That tree looks really familiar.”

You snort. “Yeah, no kidding. What with the bark and the branches and the leaves. Same color scheme, too. Looks exactly like all the other damn trees. Shocker.”

No response. You’re not surprised. Still stings. You didn’t know it was possible to miss someone so badly even though they’re _right there_.

After the uniform white and biting cold of Snowbelle, Route 20 is a welcome change. Green and sheltered and warm. Dave’s still got his scarf and sweater, but you and John are in just your shirts. Dave’s idly tossing a Pokéball between both hands, like he’s hoping for a wild encounter. With John flapping his trap so loud, you’re pretty sure any Pokémon with two braincells to their name has headed for the opposite direction posthaste. Opposite of whatever direction you’re going in, at that. John’s not entirely wrong about being lost.

“Don’t sweat it,” Dave says. “She already knows we’re here. Just making sure she can make a cool entrance is all.”

“Riiiiiiiight,” John draws the word out doubtfully. “So she lives here. In the jungle? Like Tarzan.”

“Yup.”

“And you dated her? Romantically.”

“Sure did.”

“Wow, that’s so weird. Who even lives in a- _ACK_!”

Splat goes John. On account of having Terezi all but land in his neck. 

“Trespasser!” she barks, drubbing John with her cane. He’s already face first in the grass, so you wonder what the hell she hopes to achieve. To you and Dave, however, she inclines her head. “Gentlemen.”

There’s a massive dull thud that rattles the trees hard enough to shower you all with debris. A Dragonite lumbers into view from your left, towering huge and glaring orange and holy shit you want to hug it _so bad_.

You just really fucking love Dragonite, okay?

There’s no way to get your fanboy on and not lose all your dignity. So instead you just squint and-

“Is that… is that _Lemonsnout_?”

Terezi snickers at you, one foot planted on John’s butt. “Sure is.”

“Holy shit,” and wow, it suddenly fully dawns on you how long it has been since you saw her. Lemonsnout had still been a Dratini. All sinuous blue and amazing, you’d been so damn _jealous_. Terezi had still been a kid - both of you had been, really. Young and scrawny and so ready for her journey, her bright red hair hazed with early morning mist and a knapsack on her back. 

You wonder if she achieved what she set out to.

As though she can sense the question floating towards the top of your mind, Terezi turns fully to you, twirling her cane with practised ease before tucking it under her arm.

“Want to see my collection?” she asks, grinning.

You grin right back. “Hell fucking yes please.”

*

“That’s a lot of dragons,” John says.

“No fucking kidding,” Dave answers.

Somewhere there’s an minor explosion. A couple of trees come down with dry groans of splintering wood, followed by agitated, rumbling roars. A flock of Noctowl take flight. Not all of them make it to the sky, something black and yellow-green darts into view and snatches one right out of the air. A Haxorus, you think. 

Holy shit.

“Behave!” Terezi sharply claps her hands twice. “We have visitors. Don’t want them to think we’re uncivilised.” 

“Too late for that,” John mumbles. A ‘stray’ blast of fire nearly fries him alive. He all but leaps into Dave’s arms with a yelp.

“We have indoor plumbing,” Terezi says, apropos of nothing. Maybe she thinks it excuses her ravening army of dragon Pokémon currently in the progress of starting a forest fire or two (they’re quote-unquote a little excited, she says). Her Haxorus sneezes out a flurry of be-boogered feathers. The Dragonite knocks it’s big orange posterior into a tree. A tree which turns out to be a Trevenant. Pandemonium ensues. 

You don’t know if you’re impressed as hell or about to shit your pants. Possibly both. A Salamence slithers by, smacking a mouthful of razor-sharp teeth. Definitely both.

Also, what does she need all those Charizard for? 

You’re absolutely sure you did not say that out loud, but Dave responds under his breath: “You don’t want to know.”

Sounds about right. Pretty sure the answer to that is _dragons_. 

*

The late summer sun filters through the canopy in spots and patches, highlighting gently swaying dapples on your skin and clothes. You’re up high, sitting on the sloping porch surrounding Terezi’s treehouse with your legs dangling over the ledge, feet bare. The sun slides warm and bright across your face as you hold Pucefoot’s head between your palms. After an hour of unobtrusively lingering in its presence and leaving the occasional Poké Puff lying around, Terezi’s Haxorus is allowing you to touch it. The dragon is huge and sleek, a natural born predator. 

Red eyes are fastened on your face and never once so much as blink. Making eye contact could be perceived as a challenge, a threat even, so you make sure you keep your eyes lidded and level with your hands, where you are tracing one of the scythe shaped tusks located on its upper jaw. Haxorus are actually quite friendly, intimidating physique aside, but extremely territorial. And you are, for all intents and purposes, a trespasser.

When you brush fingers coaxingly along its mouth, Pucefoot obligingly opens up for you, displaying a red fleshy cavern connected with thick threads of saliva. And also a decimated chunk of Noctowl. You… ergh, you pry it free and quickly flick it over the edge. Nasty. Bah.

Seeing as you all but just stuck your hand into its face and rummaged around in the leftovers of its dinner, you figure you’ve harassed the poor Pokémon long enough. You scritch at the tender edge of the overlapping plating right behind its head. “Yeah, I’m done molesting. Good boy, Pucefoot.” You feel only a little ridiculous saying it.

Fishing a slightly squashed Poké puff out of your pocket you send him off. Both you and Terezi watch the Haxorus nimbly clamber down and out of the tree, head down and tail counter-balancing in the air like an oversized salamander, despite its stumpy forearms. It lands lightly onto the forest floor, electing an exclamation of surprise from the boys below.

After a moment of comfortable silence, your mouth kicks up at the corner. “Okay. I admit it, this is amazing. Color me impressed.” Any clever reference to colors used to get a smile from Terezi and you are not disappointed this time either. 

She leans in until her shoulder bumps yours. “It smells delicious!”

And yeah, even after all these years, you feel stupidly pleased and proud. Well, they say your first love remains special, don’t they? That’s okay, though. Terezi’s pretty amazing and basically the best person ever to have had a major crush on, even if it was unrequited. She was your best friend, too. 

She left though. Lots of kids leave for their journey when they hit their mid-teens. Plenty turn their sorry sore asses right around and homewards after a week of having to fend for themselves. But Terezi left and never looked back, and now she has a treehouse in the Wandering Forest and managed to catch, train and breed a battalion of dragon Pokémon.

“Terezi?”

“Hm?”

“Do you have any gym badges?”

Terezi leans back on her palms, kicks her feet rhythmically into the air, back-forth-back-forth. Headtilt. “Look around you and tell me what you see.”

“Dragons,” you say. “A motherfucking shitton of dragons.”

“Exactly,” Terezi agrees. “What would I need gym badges for.”

“You present a compelling case,” you return.

She flashes her teeth at you. In the setting sun her red hair gleams like fire. Again, a few minutes slip by, easy and familiar. Up until Terezi hitches her shoulder high and scrunches her mouth into a question. “Why do you ask?”

You look down, past your toes, and focus on the ground below. If you fell you’d break your legs. Or your back. Maybe your neck. The coarse wooden planking digs into the backs of your thighs. It’s a long way down. ”No reason,” you answer. “Just curious.”

“Right.”

You roll your eyes. “Keep your nosy claws out of my mind. It was just a question, Terezi,” you growl. “Is that a goddamn crime?”

“Remains to be seen,” Terezi quips. 

“It was idle curiosity,” you sneer, slathering a cutting overabundance of levity all over your intonation.

“The way I smell it,” Terezi hums, “is that you are lost in a forest where the trees are prone to wander around and attack, as well as surrounded by three dozen dragons capable of performing feats that defy the law of physics. Three dozen dragons who obey my every command, at that. Consider your options carefully.”

“Pyrope, are you threatening me?”

Terezi smiles, bright and sunny, with the corners of her eyes crinkling. “Always.”

This girl. Fuck, fine. “It’s stupid,” you warn.

“As expected.”

You glare at her. “I fucking know it is, okay, I don’t need your flippant bullshit to realize it is. It’s just that, you went on this journey because you wanted to see all dragon Pokémon in the world and catch them —and you _did_ and that’s amazing. When we return to Snowbelle John and Dave will get their eighth badges and head for Victory Road because they want to be Champion. And here I am and I don’t know even why, really, it is absolutely hilarious. Like fuck, who am I even kidding, I was all _rah rah_ about having a team of Mega Evolving Pokémon, but you need to be the goddamn Champion before you even get a shitty as fuck shot at receiving a Mega Ring - and honestly? I’m not really invested in battling. I like the idea of it and being awesome at it and having a team of badass Pokémon with badass moves, but in the end I… I just _don’t_.

“Why am I even travelling with them when I don’t…” you trail of, frustrated, refusing to let the truth slip through your furiously clenched teeth. That you feel fucking useless, is what. Third wheel, dead weight, you don’t add anything to the group. You just tag along and fuck shit up.

Maybe Terezi still knows you well enough to understand what you’re definitely never saying out loud. However, all she says is: “Well, what do _you_ want to do?”

“I don’t know.” It’s pathetic how true that is. You just don’t know. You arguably have the best balanced team between the three of you, a full six member team, who between them manage decent type coverage. And yet they’re not a _battling_ team (you did it to impress Terezi, how pathetic is that? - well, at least now you know she was more impressed with Dave than she ever was with you and you can’t even fucking blame her). “I just. I just like Pokémon? I mean, fuck, look at these assholes. They’re amazing and they’re all so different and smart as shit and I want to… I want to…”

Uselessly, you grasp fistfuls of air to try and illustrate your meaning. You probably look like you took a real generous whiff from some Foongus spores. Why the fuck do you even bother, really? You’re being a whiny puddle of stale piss, is what. Fuck.

“I see,” Terezi replies.

You roll your eyes. “No, you really fucking don’t. Literally.”

“No, no, I actually do. This is the kind of seeing where you’re a rude dumbass and I am not. Hang on!” She leaps to her feet like a metal spring and skitters off into her treehouse.

“Okay,” you say to no one in particular.

When she returns, however, all words, all aimless fury, drains from you as soon as you lift your eyes towards her. Terezi is holding an egg. It is an iridescent lilac, with multicolored streaks swirling across the surface, like a soap bubble. And then, just like that, she puts it into your hands. 

You’re holding a dragon egg. 

It’s heavy and big. It’s lovely, the shell smooth and almost soft, weirdly slick. Carefully, hands bracing it securely, you lift it to face height and, well, rest your cheek against it. There’s a warm, solid presence to it. Something crazy and incredible and you’re cupping it between your worthless hands and you tip head further to put your ear to it. “Hey,” you go and that’s when you realize you’re talking to a motherfucking _egg_.

Wonderful.

Step away from the egg, Karkat, jesus. Freak. Worse is Terezi. Terezi who is blind, but who _looks_ at you with this expression that chews at your heart.

You lower the egg into your lap, slide your palms around it. “Which Pokémon is this?” you manage, keeping your face blank, vaguely angry at most, and downturned.

She squats down next to you. Lays a pale hand alongside your dark one. “Maybe… you should find out.”

Not understanding, you frown at her.

Withdrawing her hand, Terezi stands up again. “Keep it,” she says.

“No. Wait, no. What?” You scramble clumsily to your feet, burdened by the weight and vulnerability of the egg. 

“Why not?” she simply shoots back.

“Holy fuckshit, Terezi what the hell are you crazy? Fuck what a inane dumb as hell question of course you are but, no, stupid, what’s wrong with you, you just don’t _give_ people a dragon egg, that’s stupid and just -you don’t do that Terezi, you’ve been living in the forest for too long, fuck,” and despite all that, you’re not handing the egg over.

Yeah, no fucking way. Time to give the egg back. Right now. And now! Nooooooow? NOW! Okay, why aren’t you giving back the stupid egg, what kind of ridiculous fleshware malfunction is this. You demand a refund, stat, shittiest job ever, mom and dad, have a ‘you didn’t even try’ award. Argh, why, come on, all you have to do is give back the egg. Any moment now.

“We can play hot potato and see who wins?” Terezi suggests.

“I can’t believe I forgot how fucking crazy you really are,” you mutter. “Must’ve repressed it.”

You’re still holding the egg tucked against your chest. Terezi is regarding you both like it’s yours already. It’s not. That’s dumb. What would you do with a dragon egg? You’d be insane to keep it.

Oh god.

“Did you know Kanaya has settled on Route 7?” Terezi remarks offhandedly.

“Uh, no? What, seriously?” You shake your head. “None of you assholes tell me shit anymore.”

“Well, you have not exactly been around past year, have you?” Terezi points out, putting you back into your place easy. “Anyway, you should go see her when it has hatched. She is quite the expert.”

“…on eggs?”

“Well, yes,” Terezi says simply.

That’s when you finally grasp where she’s going with this. “Wait,” you grit out softly, blinking down at the egg in your arms. Eggs. Pokémon. Kanaya. Route 7.

Hang on a fuck. That’s not - that’s not _you_. Fine, you said it yourself and you’re not going to crawl back to gobble it up and fucking choke on it, you’re still not looking to be a battler. Never will be. But _that_. Just. No. That’s the complete opposite. Much too much of the opposite. Freshly crossed into an alternate dimension of crazy craziness kind of opposite.

“You. You mean like a Pokémon Breeder. But, that’s, well, that’s kinda…”

Terezi curls her lip. “If you dare spit out the word sitting there on the tip of your tongue I will backhand you out of this tree and feed you to Inspector Berrybreath, so don’t you even think about it, mister. Have you seen Kanaya battle?”  

And yeah, hell yeah, you have. Kanaya is like a gorgeous wrathful goddess of badassery when she battles. Still, fuck. It’s still. You know what, in the safety of your own mind you can think it, even if you know it makes you a sexist piece of shit. But. It’s kinda _girly_. There. Right? Argh, no, you know it is not, you fucking know it is and you’re being dumb but. This is a far cry from wanting to be the hero with the Mega Evolving team. Too far… isn’t it? 

On the other hand; a well-bred, carefully nurtured and raised Pokémon is ten times as effective in battle than one that can Mega Evolve. But you don’t want to battle, do you? You just want… 

The egg gleams in the dim light. The sun is setting. “I don’t know,” you admit after a long pause. “It’s not really my - I’m not exactly the nurturing type here, Terezi.”

The onset of the evening makes everything hushed and hazy. Down below you can hear Dave and John chatting, can hear the soft cheeps of Liv interspersed with ratting grunts from the dragons. 

Terezi spreads out her hands. “Okay,” she says. “Maybe you should just give me the egg back, then.”

And oh fuck it all, it is _not_ your egg. It is not, you fucking know it, and despite that your arms tighten protectively and you take the smallest step back.

As soon as your treacherous foot moves, she instantly drops her arms. “I rest my case, on account of the overwhelming amount of evidence being presented.”

You don’t have an answer to that. She’s not right, you think, you’re pretty sure she’s not. But you don’t want to give up the egg.

That’s when Terezi lightly thwaps you on your head. “Just consider it, dummy.”

Okay. Breathe in. Breathe out. The egg is warm. “Yeah, okay.”

“Correct answer,” Terezi chirps and promptly produces another egg from god knows where and deposits into your arms along the other. “Have a bonus.”

“Terezi,” you groan. This one is an even orange, speckled white and blue, with a rougher texture. You swipe your thumb over the curving shape. “No.”

“Yes.”

“John and Dave will never let me live this down,” you hiss.

That gets you a sharp rap over the head with her cane. “Then they’re not your friends.”

You can’t help your eyes veering downwards to where John and Dave are. You want… you want to be here, that you know. You want to stick this out through to the very end, wherever and whenever that is. _They_ asked _you_ , you forcibly remind yourself. They _wanted_ you with them, and even though you and John are fighting, you can’t forget that. 

“Do I get three guesses?” you wheedle and go on and do so before she can deny you. “Is one of them a Swablu?”

Altaria is to John what Dragonite is to you and Aegislash is to Dave. 

Terezi just sharkgrins at you. “I won’t spoil the surprise. However, you can encounter Altaria on Route 21.”

“Huh,” you go and then a lot more softer and rougher: “thank you.”

She’s smart enough to know you’re not referring to the tip.

“You are most welcome,” she says. “I have a carry pack tailored to eggs of this size, you can have it.”

*

Of course, the pack is this horrendous, multicoloured affair only a blind girl with a dry heave-inducing taste in color schemes could love. However, the eggs are strapped in securely against the small of your back. Their weight is already killing your shoulders.

John and Dave are giving you matching stares of bemusement as you approach them. 

You stop just out of earshot and turn towards your childhood friend. “Thanks, Terezi,” you say. It takes you a heartbeat, but at last you dare to step in and give her a quick hug.

“Just take care of them and try to be less of an idiot. If that is even possible,” she says, hugging you back. She squeezes way too hard. “And Karkat?”

“Hm,” you inquire as you let go and step back.

“Fix things with your boyfriends.”

“Wait, what?” 

“Hehehe.”

“What the fuck, do you want me to projectile vomit into your sniggering trap? Fuck. _Goodbye_!”

“Bye bye, Karkels,” Terezi singsongs at your retreating back.

“Nice eggs,” Dave deadpans as you storm past both him, John and Liv, and hopefully into the right direction that leads out of this forest as soon as fucking possible.

“Just shut up, Dave, my bullshit quota of today has already been topped up to overflowing. It is an epic shitslide of liquid manure. Don’t add to it.”

“Okay,” Dave agrees and you just know you’ll want to kill him in three, two, one… “Omelet du fromage for dinner?”

 

Goddammit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those interested in more Pokéstuck verse tidbits and randomness (such as how Dave acquired Caledfwlch, or who does the chores) feel free to visit my [Pokéstuck tag](http://everlind.tumblr.com/tagged/pok%C3%A9stuck) on my tumblr. Likewise, if you have questions of your own always feel free to ask them (IC asks are also welcome).


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Detailed info on the boys' teams: [Karkat](http://everlind.tumblr.com/post/87516195308), [John](http://everlind.tumblr.com/post/79800284118), [Dave](http://everlind.tumblr.com/post/79800294622).  
> Trainer sprites for the boys by [Pi](http://thepioden.tumblr.com/)!  
> Karkat's Egg Sprites by [Asuka](http://asukaskerian.tumblr.com/)!

The evening settles mild and easy across Route 21. How does that work, even? Two days ago it was freezing hard enough for your testicles to glaze over and now you are wandering around barefoot in the grass. Yes, you do understand that Snowbelle is caught in a cold current of air sent down from the Frost Cavern, but this is simply screwed up. Here you are, camp set up at the edge of a small lake that glitters in the lowering sun. There’s lavender growing everywhere, reaching as high as your knees and everything is bright jewel green and sleepy purple. It’s almost cozy as fuck, is what.

Almost.

You join Dave who’s, well,  _attempting_  to cook. He’s squatting in front of the tiny stove, Liv perched on his knees. You peer into pannikin. There’s a lump of… of… 

“That’s dinner, isn’t it?” you say.

“Yup.”

“Congratulations, you’ve cooked a brick.”

“My turn to cook,” Dave tells you, poking the thing with the spoon. It swirls around, leaving a slick brown trail along the bottom. “If I say it’s bricks for dinner, it’s bricks for dinner. I hear munching these babies will increase mangrit.”

“Right,” you go, rubbing a hand across your face. “Where’s John?” 

“Out taking a stroll. Nice try. You will eat this brick and enjoy it, bro. No running to John and begging for oh no wait, you two  _still aren’t talking_. Never mind.”

Ouch. 

You breathe out. “Don’t, Dave. Just fucking drop it.”

The spoon clatters into the pot as Dave rocks sharply back onto his heels. “What if I don’t?” he murmurs. Looks up at you. You can see a vague outline of his eyes though the dark lenses of his shades. “What if I don’t want to.”

“What is there to say?” you bite at him. “I fucked up. I fucked up and he’s making sure I know I did.”

“Wow, I don’t know, ‘sorry’ usually does the trick,” Dave says, swiping a hand through the air and dismissing your attitude. “You’d be surprised how well that works. Should try it sometime.”

You don’t look at him. Look at Liv instead. John’s Buneary hasn’t allowed you to touch her for weeks in a fierce display of loyalty to her trainer. It’s humbling, actually, because you’ve gotten so used to being able to charm all Pokémon, if you were only patient enough. Not Liv, though. She stares right back at you, her ears unfurled and framing Dave’s face.

“Why me?” you demand, because seriously, at this point the whole situation is so mired down in emotional discharge it’s become just as much John’s fault as it is yours. If John was being less of a shit about it all, you’d long since have apologised. You would have! Really. Probably. “He’s being-“

“True,” Dave cuts you off by stabbing a finger at you. “I know he is, alright? But  _you_  started it.”

There’s a pause. Dave’s face slides sideways into a faint frown, slightly sheepish around the edges.

“Should I go to my room?” you suggest, lightly needling him.

“Nuh-uh, you march your grumpy ass right over to that boy and apologize all nice and polite, mister, or you better find a nice snug corner to burn some time-out in.”

“Yeah, how about not,” you mutter, scrunching up your nose. “Taking it too far, you sniffling sack of dicks, please regurgitate your moronic buttflustered bullshit before someone gets hurt.”

“I’m being serious here, man,” Dave goes on, “mommy and daddy aren’t talking, that’s how it starts, but it’s a slippery slope from there because before you know it Dad’s driving around the block in his red Porsche with his prematurely balding head blowing in the wind and making eyes at the butcher’s wife while mom’s hitting the vodka and doing zumba in the living room all night but what about the kids, Karkat, what about the kids? I don’t wanna be a broken family.”

God. Why. You pinch the bridge of your nose. “Dave, Dave there are no children. Just, no. Stop.”

“Karkat!” Dave exclaims, covering Liv’s ears hurriedly. “No, shoosh, baby, he didn’t mean that. Daddy still loves you.”

“Holy shit, what the actual fuck do I have to do to get your verbal diahhrea orifice to stop spewing idiocy?” you plead, because if he doesn’t stop talking you’re going to take that spoon, shove it up his nostril and twirl it around. And then you’ll have to somehow explain that mess, but you’ve got a massive headache so you’d just go to jail and that would fucking suck.

“Fix things with John,” Dave immediately blurts. “I’ll be good as gold, I fucking swear.”

“I am one hundred percent sure you are completely incapable of being anything other than only slightly less useless than a lump of coal, let alone achieve the likeliness to a precious metal,” you point out.

Dave snatches the spoon out of the pot and waves it at you. “Also, if you can manage to suck it up long enough to finally apologise, John might just be peppy enough to cook dinner.”

Huh. That is a compelling argument. 

“… yeah okay, I’m going.”

Dave actually fist pumps. “Don’t forget, say sorry! Soo-reeee -like that. And maybe smile, but don’t overdo it, your face might break. Baby-steps.”

“Fuck you,” you tell him, turning on your heel and heading towards the lake.

“Make John cook dinner first and I’ll think about.”

You don’t bother responding, too busy trying to figure out what the hell you’re even going to say to John. Maybe, well. Maybe you’ll start with sorry. Yeah.

*

He’s not hard to find. 

You’ve only traced the edge of the lake for a minute or two when you spot him. Pants rolled up into a wad just under his knees, feet trailing into the water. The sun is sinking low, streaking flickering gold along the gentle ripples in the water. It’s balmy, just right, but when a gust of wind catches you unawares and lifts your teeshirt away from your body, goosebumps break out all over your arms. Your hair is tossed into your face, but you can still see John hunch his shoulders and shiver through your bangs.

You don’t want to do this. At all. 

Dave’s right, you know he is.  _You_  started it,  _you_  fucked up,  _your_  fault. It’s just that John’s been such an absolute asshole to you about it. Not just for a day or three, no. For  _weeks_. In this mulish, petulant way that rubs you all wrong and plucks at the anger simmering under your skin, worrying it like a scab until you’re boiling with fury. He couldn’t even suck it up long enough when he and Dave received their Iceberg Badge and just be fucking happy and celebrate together. Not even for one lousy goddamn evening.

That’s what makes it incredibly tempting to just let him stew in it, the way he seems so determined to be. The more you think about it, the angrier you get, until you can feel it sit on your tongue and struggle against the back of your teeth and  _fuck him_ , fuck him and his goddamn holier-than-thou fuckitude, maybe it’s just time for you to pack your shit and go home.

But then Chomper comes waddling out of the long swaying grass, hilarious and ridiculous and overpowered as hell, that damn Pokémon, and it shuffles straight up to John, who scritches it under the edge of its chin -the way you taught him to. The Bidoof propellers its stumpy tail in delight.

Something goes achy and resigned in your chest. You miss him. Despite everything, you miss your friend. Aw, fuck.

As you approach, Chomper points its face towards you, one rounded ear flicking questioningly. John, seeing the sudden shift of his Pokémon’s attention, looks over his shoulder. Goes very, very still.

It’s strange, and disconcerting because John  _always_  moves, never stops, always pushing on and on and on for the sake of seeing and living and being. The line of his spine is visible through his shirt and his black hair is licked into a sideway swoop from the breeze.

You’ve stopped, standing still, hands in your pockets. Knees stiff and belly clenching with nerves, it feels like it takes ages to reach him, despite it being only six, maybe seven steps, to close the distance between you both.

Sit down next to him, careful, not too close, not too far and swallow hard. You pull your knees up against your front and wrap both arms around them. “Hey,” you go, voice gruff. “We need to talk.”

John’s fingers tangle into Chomper’s fur in light, mindless patterns. His skin his almost the same color, tan and olive, reminding you of warm summer sun, even though he all but walked out of winter a few days ago. He doesn’t say anything.

“Fucking hell, John, could you-“ you bite down on your anger, hard, but don’t quite manage to reign it in. “Could you just for one goddamn minute-“

_talk to me stop pretending like I’m not even there just look at me_

“I’m not,” John says quickly. “I just don’t know what to say, alright?”

“I’m sorry.” It falls out graceless and stunted, but. Well. You said it.

A sharp exhale guts out of John. “Okay,” he says.

And you just…  _godfucking piece of ass sniffing shit_. The anger flares sharp and blinding. This miserable imbecile gets under your skin so bad you just want to- ARGH. “What more do you want, you rotten assplum?” you yell. “Should I get on my knees and beg for your forgiveness while I lick your heels? I fucked up, I made the wrong call and yeah, you were right. Is that what you wanted to hear? Do you need to hear me say it so you can run along and jack off to your smug, self-congratulatory content? You were right, John. Happy now?”

He doesn’t even have the decency to look cowed. Instead he stares out over the water, both hands loose and relaxed in his lap. His nails are dirty and his palms are chafed red. “Not really,” he admits, with a shrug. “Thanks, I guess.”

Right then.

“Fine,” you bite out and make to get up.

He doesn’t stop you, but you’ve barely braced one knee under you when he whispers: “Do you really believe that, Karkat? That I would abandon you?”

“I- what?”

“Dave was very sick, asshole, do you really think I’m so fucking dumb and selfish I’d just  _leave_ you?” He’s angry. He’s finally angry. But it’s worse, somehow, because it doesn’t match yours. Instead it’s a little hurt and battered, like it sat inside of him the whole time and got rattled around so often it’s just made him  _tired_  and  _sore_. He’s not done, though. Chin coming up he looks at you, brows pinched together. “I thought we were friends, okay? And, you know, it’s… if we weren’t, then, well, that sucks, okay, but Dave’s my friend, you know he is and I’d never-”

“Whoa!” You plunk down on your ass hard enough your tailbone pings in protest and the message of ‘fuck that hurt’ is passed along every damn vertebra of your spine. “What the hell is this? Of course we’re friends!”

“Right,” John exhales, shaking his head a little. “Friends don’t abandon friends when- how can you even think that?”

“I just-“ oh, god. Your stomach does a churning, horrible sinking thing. “You did once, okay?”

John’s looking at you, has been ever since he raised his voice and that’s —it’s not nice, but it’s better than nothing, it’s a lot, him paying attention to you again. “Huh?” he goes, eloquent as always.

“Route 3, John,” you manage to choke out, “you didn’t even say goodbye, you little self-absorbed shit. I never knew what happened to you!”

“Oh my god,” John goes, brows going up. “Seriously, dude? That’s what this is about? We were like, fifteen, and I so totally waited! I delayed for three days, okay? But you never gave me your number or your holo or where you lived! I didn’t even know your last name! What did you expect me to do? Not go? Tell Dave, hey sorry bro, can’t do this super awesome journey with you because I’ve not said bye to this guy I sometimes battle with and who probably doesn’t even like me very much?”

“I know it’s stupid!” you scream, pulling at your hair in frustration.

“Yeah, no kidding!”

It’s stupid, everything is stupid and both of you are staring at each other with this helpless ‘I can’t believe what an idiot you are’ and it’s so fucking stupid you just wanna tip forward into the lake and drown. 

“Oh my god, Karkat. Way to generate a whole circus around one unresolved issue!”

“Shut up!” 

“You’re such a dumbass.”

“No, you.”

“Wow.”

“Shut up.”

“Do you want a hug?”

“No!”

“You totally do, don’t you?”

“TOUCH ME AND DIE!”

He grabs for you and you evade, overbalance and skid down the gentle slope of lake bank. You’re one leg into the freezing cold water and shrieking bloody murder when John seizes the scruff of your sweater and hoists you back up. Collapsing into his side you scowl down at your wet pants. Looks like you had a bladder failure of epic proportions down one side. Classy.

“You look like you pissed yourself,” John points out helpfully.

“Fuck you,” you go tiredly. Rub at your face. The whole exchange feels dislocated from time and reality, but it’s already getting dark, sun gone down beyond the tops of the trees.

John shifts restlessly, you’re all but squashing him backwards into the grass with your weight. “Are we-“

“ _Yes_ ,” you blurt instantly.

“Oh,” John goes. “Oh good. Phew. Hahahah-“ and he dissolves into a flurry of breathy, relieved sniggers. Your mouth kicks up fleetingly into a smile.

Yeah. Phew.

*

“Awesome,” Dave says when you and John wander back into camp. “Did you ask him about dinner?”

“What?” John goes. You roll your eyes, kick some sand into Dave’s direction. John looks into the pot, confusion plain on his face. “Why did you put a brick in there?”

Dave crosses his arms. Liv, standing by his feet, mimics him. “It’s not a- whatever  _fine_ , never mind!” He tips the pot over demonstratively. The lump grates out and falls with a dull  _pok!_  to the ground. Christ. Toeing it out of sight with his sneaker, Dave goes on: “So did you two kiss and make up?”

“Weeeeeeeell,” John goes, before you’ve even sucked enough air into your lungs to shout at him. “We made up, but we didn’t kiss” -and oh god he turns to you, fists propped onto his hips- “Karkat, you owe me a kiss!”

You don’t miss the way Dave’s brows shoot up from behind his shades. Your feet aren’t moving. Hell, your everything isn’t moving. Someone pulled the plug on your brain -John did- and it’s system error one-oh-one to the core. Your feet still aren’t moving when John marches over and grabs your chin.

You’re unable to do anything about it. You think your mouth fell open in shock and it’s still dangling there gathering dust and cobwebs when John leans in close enough you feel the gust of his exhales tickle your face.

And then John licks your cheek.

You can  _feel_  slick ropes of saliva lifting from his tongue to coat your cheek. You yowl and shove at him and he almost dislocates your chin because he refuses to let go. It’s disgusting and terrible. You’re laughing. Why are you laughing?

“OH GROSS!” you splutter, whacking him in the chest and shoulders.

John lets go and you are straining away so violently the sudden lack of counterweight has you reeling backwards until you flop into a patch of lavender. A Vivillon bursts into the air, wings garish pink. Meadow pattern, your brain supplies automatically, but then you’re thoroughly distracted as John advances on Dave, next.

“Do you want some sugar, too, now, baby?” John croons at him. Dave flashsteps for safety. 

The last you hear is Dave sending out his Krookodile to hide behind.

You lie on your back and stare up at the stars.

*

Later, after John and Dave all but destroyed the camp with an impromptu Pokémon battle, and after dinner  _finally_  happened (thankfully nothing brickshaped), you find yourself waiting for sleep. Eyes heavy, you gaze at the faint outline of Gust and Feathery Asshole sitting on your eggs, which both lie tucked in a swaddle of worn shirts well out of the way where nobody’ll accidentally crush them.

You’re exhausted, mentally as well as physically, but you’ve always struggled with sleep and tonight is no different. 

Just as you feel yourself segueing into this heavy, slack state of awareness at long last, John suddenly turns around and throws an arm over your waist. You tense and your heartbeat accelerates rapidly. 

John mashes his face against your shoulder. There’s a luminous quality to the night, leaving just enough space between the shadows to make out the tangle of his dark hair and the curve of his cheek. He smells like fresh air.

“I’m sorry, too,” he mutters and you can feel his mouth form the words through the sleeve of your shirt.

You grunt. “It’s fine.”

“I was a total shitbag.”

“True.”

“Karkat!”

“What? You were.”

“You’re both total shitbags,” Dave mumbles. “This is the part where you stop talking, by the way, because you two can’t word together, bad things happen when you word and I’m tired and it’s cold and I need my beauty sleep.”

“That’s a lost case, Dave,” John says cheerfully. He’s grinning, you can tell. He’s not moved away.

“Don’t hate me because I’m beautiful,” Dave counters. “Are you two hugging?”

“No,” you say.

“Maybe,” John goes.

Dave  _tsks_. “No fair, sharing is caring, c’mon,” and he caterpillars over to drape himself bodily over the both of you, still wrapped up like a human burrito in his sleeping bag. “Love me.”

“You have cooties, so no,” John goes, flicking his head.

Dave tries to headbutt him, gets you in the ribs, instead. You huff and kick up a knee, nearly get him in the groin.

“Careful of the family jewels!” Dave yelps, which causes John to laugh warm and fast into your skin and Dave’s  _heavy_  and you’re not going to get any sleep at all, are you?

And you don’t, not really. But Dave’s boneless and warm across your middle and John’s slack and comfortable against your side. Between the both of them there are way too many elbows and ribs and knees and hips involved, it’s actually kinda terrible, but when dawn creeps shy and gilded through the nylon of your tent, you feel more rested than you have been in weeks.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those interested in more Pokéstuck verse tidbits and randomness (such as how Dave acquired Caledfwlch, or who does the chores) feel free to visit my [Pokéstuck tag](http://everlind.tumblr.com/tagged/pok%C3%A9stuck) on my tumblr. Likewise, if you have questions of your own always feel free to ask them (IC asks are also welcome).


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Detailed info on the boys' teams: [Karkat](http://everlind.tumblr.com/post/87516195308), [John](http://everlind.tumblr.com/post/79800284118), [Dave](http://everlind.tumblr.com/post/79800294622).  
> Trainer sprites for the boys by [Pi](http://thepioden.tumblr.com/)!  
> Karkat's Egg Sprites by [Asuka](http://asukaskerian.tumblr.com/)!

“So I was thinking,” John begins.

“A chill just ran down my spine,” you mutter.

Dave glances at you. The two of you share a smile.

“We should name the eggs!”

You’d facepalm, but you’re holding your PokéApp. Multitasking only gets you so far without horrifying results. “They’re eggs. They don’t give a shit.”

“Not so loud!” John hisses, wrapping arms around around the purple egg snug in its sling against his front. “They can hear you.”

You huff. “Says who?” 

“The internet, dude,” John rolls his eyes. “Some Pokémon expert _you_ are.”

“I never said I was a Pokémon expert,” you counter.

John goes _PFFFFF!_ really loud at you. “Well, you sure _act_ like it.”

“Children!” Dave interjects. “Kids. Munchkins. Tiny humans. Babes. What did I say about bickering before noon?”

Now it’s time for you and John to exchange a look.

“Dave,” John says. “It’s four in the afternoon.”

“Exactly,” Dave says. “Anyway, I vote yes for naming. The majority has spoken the motion has passed it is law because I have the best idea for names, it is me, check thi—“

“If you say Sweet Bro and Hella Jeff I will end you.”

Dave’s mouth kicks up at the side but he goes on without missing a beat: “Jesse and James.”

“What?” you kind of want to snatch the orange egg back from him. What if the stupid rubs off on it? “Okay, no. A lot of no. I am sprinkling no all over the damn place like a fairy with a severe naysayer complex.”

“Those are stupid names,” John agrees. 

“Even you are capable of something slightly more intelligent than that,” you tell Dave. 

“Cheeto.”

You groan. “I looked the universe and, foolish, dared it to do its worst. Fuck you, Dave Strider. Fuck you.”

“Ouch. What kind of wanton jezebel do you take me for? I don’t even kiss on the first date. Girl’s gotta have standards, you know, and I don’t think you’re living up to them. Also the egg is orange so I don’t see why not.”

“I’ll name the eggs and _that_ one’s name is Casey,” John loudly declares, pointing at the one Dave’s carrying, sitting in an fabric hammock identical to his own. 

Best thing about not fighting with John -besides the not fighting part which is really damn wonderful- is this. Not having to carry those eggs all by yourself, or both at once. The carry pack Terezi gave you might be handy, sure. Just really not intended to carry two huge-ass eggs on your back for eight hours a day, while hiking your sorry ass all over Kalos. Not only might you have developed a hernia, your shoulders are chafed raw. Literally. The wounds were oozing this morning, which is what gave you away.

First thing John did when you set out this morning was to show the both of you how to make a sling. You’re so fucking _relieved_. Liv weighs about the same as one egg, but she’s currently hiking a ride on Malik’s back. Problem solved. (you really have to try and convince John it’s good for her to be in her Pokéball once in a while, but so far he won’t hear it)

“I am not naming any eggs after that shitastic piece of cinematic horror,” you say, even though you… kind of like it? Hm. “Casey’s not so bad, I guess.”

“Hello, Casey,” Dave says, buffing the crest of the egg with his sleeve. “This is uncle Dave.”

“Dave, no,” you say.

“Daddy Dave. Could be DD for short. Deedee Strider gonna take real good care of you, jus’ you wait, gonna appreciate your curves the way nature intended and you’re _all_ curves, ain’t you sweetheart?”

You grit your jaw. “Can I hit him now?” you ask John.

“Nope, you already exceeded your spank-the-Strider quota for the day.”

“I’m still a-tinglin’, got to give me some time to recuperate, you know,” Dave says, all sultry innuendo. 

You take a deep breath. Count to ten. Exhale. “God, I really hate both of you.”

John grins at you. “No, you don’t,” he says.

Urgh. No, you fucking don’t. It’s awful. _They’re_ awful. From the way John and Dave are staring you down with these expectant little smirks they fucking know it, too.

Time to change the subject. You clear your throat. “What about the other one?”

“Slimer,” comes the prompt answer, and that’s the moment you realise John’s been thinking about this for a while. The lilac egg has a kaleidoscopic cast to it, like the layer of oil that covers the puddles in the street after a rainy day in the city. It also has this curiously slick texture which lingers on the surface of your skin. You often find yourself worrying the tips of your fingers together after holding it, frowning.

It’s not a pretty name, but it’s a good name. (and yeah, you’re perfectly aware it’s from another shitty movie of his)

The three of you walk on in silence, low heavy sunlight breathing across your napes. You try not to think too much about the road ahead, and your destination beyond that, whether it might mean the point of no return for you, for the others, for this. The very last stop. End of the journey. You don’t want to go home. After this you don’t think you can. Because you think _this_ might be. Home, that is. The dust kicking up under the soles of your shoes and the wind rifling through your hair and the ache in your muscles after a long day of walking. You think it might be these two idiots, a little (a lot).

More than anything you want to see these two absolute shitsteaks succeed. Victory Road tomorrow. Fuck.

At long last the goddamn map on your PokéApp loads, indicating your location with a pulsing red dot. Should reach the gatehouse soon, where you can finally set up camp. If you’re in luck you might be able trade some items with other trainers spending the night there. Fuck, you’re really looking forward to crawling into the tent and crashing for the night. Even though Route 21 is one of the easiest, most straightforward damn routes ever, you’re exhausted as _hell_.

And there it is then, the huge gray structure straddling the crossroads between Route 21, Route 22 and Victory Read —looming just ahead. The only obstacle between it and the three of you is a field of poppies nodding sleepily in the late evening breeze.

“Figures,” you grunt.

John nudges you with his elbow. “It’ll be fine.”

You sigh. “Let’s get this over with. Malik,” you curl your fingers at him to stay close.

Halfway through the field Dave hums thoughtfully. “So you know how Route 21 has been Route 21 for like a hella lot years and there’s got to have been like a fuckton of wannabes trainering through the area on their way to Victory Road?”

“Huh-huh,” you agree, giving him a flat look. “Kind of like you two are doing right now?”

Dave ignores you, gesturing at the trampled trail of flowers in your wake. “And you still get these hardcore Pokémon squatting around being all pissed off when you accidentally step on them. What’s up with that? Can’t they figure this is like the worst hideout? Like that four feet Scyther earlier that was all wow fuck how did they even see me what is this witchcraft better Fury Cutter the skin off their blasphemous behinds. Didn’t anybody tell that guy that if you’re a hugeass green bug with superpowers and giant scythes for arms chilling between the dandelions someone’s gonna notice? Go figure.”

“Are you going somewhere with this?” John wants to know.

“Yeah dude, cool your jets, good things come to those— who _A FUCK_!”

Fuck is about right.

It’s a horde.

It’s a goddamn horde of… oh. Oh hell, they’re Swablu. All this fucking time you were keeping your eyes peeled for Altaria and now you’ve stumbled ass-first into a swarm of very agitated Swablu. John goes _oh_ like someone stepped on him. The expression on his face is equal parts pure awe and pure fear. Your heart goes out to him. That right there is his most coveted Pokémon and John is notoriously bad at catching Pokémon. Actually, fuck, _bad_ doesn’t do it justice. He’s so terribly godfuckingawful at it it’s painful to watch. The worst case of secondhand embarrassment ever. Hide behind your hands and make upset zombie noises because this shit is too fucking harrowing to watch-bad. Seriously, there’s a _reason_ he’s only got four Pokémon -only two of which he actually managed to catch himself.

At his side his hand frantically fumbles for a Pokéball. Hovers over the third one on the bandoleer. You grab the back of his shirt.

“What the actual fuck, John, do not use Chomper, I repeat: do not use Chomper!” at his confused look you jab a frantic finger at the Swablu swarming around in confusion, looking for a target. Shiiiiiit. Gotta be quick. “Your Bidoof is a powerhouse of cheatastic proportions. Do you want to beat the little blue bastards up so bad they tuck tail and flap the everloving fuck out of here posthaste?”

“But there’s so many,” John hisses back.

“You’re about as subtle as a pile of bricks in a nursery, you complete moron, god, listen to the words coming out of my noise hole, okay? Words mean things. Hurt them and you’ll scare them off. You have to tire them out. Lull them! Not terrify them into defacing all over each other.”

“What he’s trying to say is that Stun Spore is your friend,” Dave interjects. “Chop chop, hop to it, time waits for no one, let’s not keep those ferocious mochi balls waiting cause they’re real keen on extracting swift and fluffy revenge on our sorry asses, I can see it in their beady little eyes.” 

John’s fingers twitch over Chomper’s ball, indecisive. For one absolutely infuriating moment you think he’ll dig in his heels in show of mulish arrogance, ignoring your perfectly sane advice. But at the absolute last possible moment he suddenly yanks the second one free and hurls it into the air.

Cotton burst free with a swirl of energy, whirling through the air in elation before floating gently downwards. There’s always this manic glee to John’s Whimsicott, like it’s got a truckload of Quick Powder shoved up its ass. Suddenly you’re not sure you made the right call, like at all. Swablu is Flying type, ah fuck, stupid idiot fuck that you are— Cotton’ll be weak to that. Thank god its overleveled like all of John’s Pokémon.

Dave’s fingers wind into the back of your shirt as he draws you away. Before turning away, John thrusts Slimer the egg into your hands. You clutch it to your front and go with Dave. You’re reluctant to go, you want to stay right by his side and help him. Stay there and make this happen for John. But that would meaningless, he has to do this for himself.

It’s up to him now.

*

It takes John an hour.

An hour, and then longer. It feels like you stand there a lifetime with your shoulder brushing Dave’s as you hardly dare to breathe. 

Within the first ten minutes of battle you can tell which one he’s got his heart set on. It’s bluer than the others, slightly faster. You think it might be female. Whatever draws John to that particular one you do not know, but you’re liking the keen look in its eyes. Plus it’s good for him to single one out and focus on it instead of barging around throwing his crazy Pokémon at whichever one unlucky enough to be in range.

One by one, John and Cotton pick them off, chasing the others away. The bright emerald light of Energy Ball burns flickering spots into your retina that swim across your vision. Some Pokémon are born fighters; they thrive on it. Cotton is such a Pokémon, always ready for calculated risks and sly trickery. Right now John is directing him to use raw power. Whimsicott honestly isn’t the right Pokémon to use against Swablu, they’re resistant to grass type moves, and yet despite that John steady whittles away and outlasts them all, until only the final one is left. It flutters about in a panicked daze without its friends. It takes ages before Stun Spore finally paralyses it.

Takes even longer for the Pokéball to take.

Six times, to be exact. Six times in which the Swablu breaks free in a flash of light. You can’t see the ball twitch as it works to keep the Pokémon contained, as soon as it drops down it is lost from view between the flowers. What you can see is John go rigid with tension every single time -and the defeated slope of his shoulders when it doesn’t hold, see them slump deeper after each failure.

“C’mon, c’mon… you fucking piece of shit,” you’re muttering under your breath. Then hiss as the dreaded flare of whiteness makes your eyes water.

Dave is like stone at your side, hands balled into white-knuckled fists.

And suddenly, as you’re bracing for the pitched shatter of the mechanism and the consequential burst of released energy —it doesn’t happen.

At your side, Dave exhales like he’s been gutted. John _caught_ it. John caught a Swablu. You need to put your hands over your mouth to contain the emotion. You find that you’re shaking.

After a long, disbelieving pause John steps forward. Feet heavy yet calm, collected. Leans down to pick it up, but sinks through his knees instead. Holds out an arm and curls Cotton into it as soon as he drifts close enough. Just _sits_ there, cradling an exhausted Cotton close, the Pokéball in his lap. Ever so faintly you can hear him chant: “Thank you, thank you, thank you,…” into Cotton’s white poofy fur.

He did it.

You’re still standing there, still covering your mouth, shocked speechless. It’s Dave who eventually rocks into motion, walking over to him to hoist him to his feet. He hooks his hands under John’s armpits, which are sweaty enough with stress and exertion to have stained his shirt. Dave heaves. John rises to his feet like a dead man, lolls into Dave’s side drunkenly -Cotton and all.

“Well done, bro,” Dave says and John smiles.

* 

“I think John’s broken,” Dave whispers at you hours later.

“Shush!” you hiss, flicking your fingers into his face. You have to reach over John to do so. It’s late, and John’s had a rough day. It’s his turn to be in the middle, and that’s where he is, asleep. (You and John do rock-paper-scissors over who gets to sleep in the middle every day. Dave prefers to take the outside, putting himself between the both of you and the dark night as though you and John are feudal princesses in need of a steadfast knight protecting their virtue.)

Dave pokes you back -also having to stretch out his arm over John to do so. It’s on. You prod him in retaliation. Dave shoves at your shoulder. The two of you smack hands at each other like five-years olds fighting over who gets a turn on the swing. 

 

Amazingly enough, John sleeps through this whole production. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those interested in more Pokéstuck verse tidbits and randomness (such as how Dave acquired Caledfwlch, or who does the chores) feel free to visit my [Pokéstuck tag](http://everlind.tumblr.com/tagged/pok%C3%A9stuck) on my tumblr. Likewise, if you have questions of your own always feel free to ask them (IC asks are also welcome).


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Detailed info on the boys' teams: [Karkat](http://everlind.tumblr.com/post/87516195308), [John](http://everlind.tumblr.com/post/95754863263), [Dave](http://everlind.tumblr.com/post/79800294622). BONUS: [Asshole Ace Trainer's Team](http://everlind.tumblr.com/post/95754872753)  
> Trainer sprites for the boys by [Pi](http://thepioden.tumblr.com/)!  
> Karkat's Egg Sprites by [Asuka](http://asukaskerian.tumblr.com/)!  
> [amazing John + Team art ](http://everlind.tumblr.com/post/94969235043)by [camarilla-intuition](http://camarilla-intuition.tumblr.com/)!  
> 

Fuck. You wish he wouldn’t do that. Seriously, you told Dave you needed to hook his idiot ass to a leash, but nooooo.

“Karkat, stop fretting.”

“I’m not fretting.”

“Yeah, and I’m a sparkly Hippopotas shakin’ it up in a tutu. Sit down.”

“He’s going to break his fucking neck.”

“Karkat.”

“Fuck, _fine_ ,” you reluctantly tear your eyes away from John’s swiftly diminishing form hopping like a particularly reckless Skiddo down the side of the cliff. All those potentially fatal acrobatics just to track down something shiny he _thought_ he saw. John’s brain, ladies and gentlemen: oooh something shiny, let’s stop doing all of the actually important shit so we can go fetch it. Fuck, whatever. And, hey, while you’re on that blistering assfart of a subject, what the fuck is up with that anyway? Is there some deranged asshole out there prancing about stuffing random shit in perfectly good Poké balls and sprinkling them around like they’re the fucking Easter Diggersby? 

Bah. You lower yourself as careful as you can with an armful of overly-affectionate Buneary. Oh, oh fuck. Sitting down feels so _good_. Victory Road your ass, Welcome to Hell you ridiculous dumb shits, more like. It’s agonising to take off your boots -ow ow! Your blisters have blisters. Ergh, gross. You wriggle your toes gratefully in the grass, breathe out. Nothing could’ve prepared you for this. Definitely a different kind of worse from the snowstorm on Route 19, but bad nonetheless.

Dave’s already comfortably seated with both eggs tucked safely in the cradle of his legs, releasing Pokémon after Pokémon. Might as well; you follow suit. The first thing Sick does upon seeing the stellar vista is screech most indignantly. There’s just no pleasing that guy.

Before long you and Dave are stretched out on your sides, sharing an apple. Everything’s rationed now, food and water needs to last to the summit. That cloud-fringed peak right there had better fucking _be_ the damn summit. In the past eight days you thought you were looking at it five fucking times. But then oh goodie, guess what? Another cave or grove or extremely steep needle-thin path for fucknoodles with the fuckiest of death wishes to merrily skip along.

You’re sure the lot of you make quite a spectacle, covered in dust and harried around the edges as you are, but the spot’s pretty secluded. Shielded by the remnant walls of some long forgotten ruin, kind of nice. Great spot to set up camp, actually. Can’t —it’s barely noon and it is crucial you cover as much distance as you can before nightfall.Licking the juice from your fingers you exhale slowly, look out over the ravine. The view goes on forever. You experience a strange sense of vertigo at the sight of lush valleys rolling on endlessly towards the horizon, like you’re about to be sucked over the edge and find yourself falling forever.

Dave’s flat on his back with an egg snug under each armpit, crooning: “Who’s a pretty egg? You are! Who’s a pretty egg? You are!” He’s taking that whole ‘the eggs can hear you’ bullshit way too fucking seriously. Weirdo. It’s horrible because he’s beatboxing throughout it. Badly.

This essentially leaves you on Pokémon-sitting duty. Lucky for you Dave’s team is pretty subdued. Then again they’ve had plenty of battles over the past few days and are exhausted. Yours however… Nubby and Crabby get into a tussle over… fuck, who even knows, and your Exploud… is ARGH— why? Seriously. 

You open your mouth and yell: “Shouty, you get your big purple ass back here! No, drop that, don’t you fucking da” - _MUNCH_ \- “…motherfuck.”

“Give it up, man,” Dave says.

You glare at him. Glare back at Shouty. Who’s… licking the wall. Yeah, okay. Never mind.

A soft nose tickles against the side of your throat -Liv hamming it up for Poké Puffs, all ‘why, yes I posses toxic levels of cute and am not afraid to use it’. You cave pretty much straight away. 

“John’s spoiled you something awful, you know that, right?” you tell her, holding the treat up for her between your fingers. Liv neatly grips it between her paws and nibbles on it.

“You seem familiar.”

Both you and Dave jerk upright with a start, thoroughly taken off guard (the one time Sick screeching the alarm would’ve been welcome, he fucking doesn’t, of course). Standing there is a… well. A douchebag. No, okay, a douchebag in an Ace Trainer get-up, like so many other peewees around here. Good looking douchebag, sure, but wow, you’re almost impressed by the sheer smug satisfaction radiating off him. Almost. If only you had a fuck to give.

Sadly you’re clear out of fucks. “Do I know you?” you snarl at him.

He gives you a dismissive glance. “Not you,” he mutters, eyes flicking up and down Dave contemplatively for a moment, before jumping back towards you. Stares at your face like you’re this… _thing_ , like you’re just taking up space and it’s annoying, but he can’t be bothered to care. Then, however, his eyes drop lower. To Liv, sitting in your lap.

You really don’t fucking appreciate the malicious leer that plucks the corners of his mouth upwards.

Next to you, Dave breathes out with a groan: “Aw, hell no.”

“You know,” the guy says. “I really thought I’d gotten that one good. Seems like it is tougher than it looked like. Where’s her trainer?”

You’re frowning. Frowning and gaping a little, at that. Liv squirms in your lap, severely agitated. Soft cheeping noises are lost in the fabric of your shirt as she hides her face against your chest.

“Remember Anistar?” Dave grunts.

Of course you do, how could you ever forget? Anistar was where— oh. OH.

“Yeah,” Dave says. “Karkat, meet the asshole who fucked up Liv.”

And said asshole? He smiles. Does even this little bow with a flourish. Like what he did is something funny, something to be proud of.

It’s low fire in your belly, you swallow it down just enough to keep your head clear. Just enough to wreck that fucker’s shit. Yeah. Fun fact of the day: you’re a champion at being angry. Motherfucking miracles, right? And whoa boy, guess what? You’re really. fucking. _ANGRY_. Pretty boy wants to go? Fine, you’ll fucking go. Dave and John might be idiots, but they’re _your_ idiots. 

“Dave,” you grit out.

“Karkat.”

“Hold my Buneary.”

“Kick his ass, babe, I got yo Buneary. Don’chu worry ‘bout a thang.”

You deposit your Buneary into his awaiting arms and get up. Dust down your pants like a goddamn gentleman, because you’re going to kick his ass in style, is what.

“Hey asshole!” He looks at you, face livid. Aw, how cute. Fucknugget knows his name. Now all you have to do is teach him some manners. You jerk your head towards an open clearing. “You and me, two Pokémon each, let’s go.”

That gets you a completely unimpressed snort. Once again, his eyes flit up and down your person and you have not a single doubt that all he sees is a short kid a few years younger than him, barefoot and covered in dust. “What’s in it for me?”

“Your pride,” you snap back instantly. “Or can you only handle the odd Buneary once in a while?” 

Alright, you have to hand it to him, he’s not just a pretty face with a godawful attitude problem. Doesn’t even rise to the taunt really, so okay, kudos for that you suppose. “Fifteen thousand cash, and you’re on shorty,” he offers.

You do, actually, have fifteen thousand on you. Barely. It’s fifteen thousand you can’t afford to gamble. It’s all the money you have between the three of you, money of which not even a third is yours. Fuck.

“Karkat,” Dave says and you look at him from over your shoulder. Dave’s face is perfectly passive as he draws a finger along his throat in a slicing motion.

_kill him_

A rush of pure pleasure runs through you, straight from head to toes in a tingling wave of gratitude. Dave trusts you. He actually, genuinely has got your back on this one hundred percent. Believes so completely in you he’s giving you full green light to bet all your savings. And you’ll be damned if you let your friend down.

“Deal,” you agree and have a moment of vicious satisfaction to see shock flash across Asshole’s face. 

Again, he’s surprisingly elegant in collecting himself. He’s got good form. Outwardly. Fact remains that he beat up a dumb kid’s Buneary just because he could. Pokémon battles are what they are; a fight. A fight between two fantastic creatures with mystical powers, constantly urging to pit those powers against one another until one of them simply cannot go on any more. That’s the truth of it. But once you reach the limit, you fucking _stop_. Because hey, _living creatures_. 

That guy didn’t. He kept going until Liv bled, and kept going even then. Enjoyed it.

You roll your shoulders. Lace your fingers and fold your palms outward -pushing until your knuckles crack. Recall all your Pokémon, think for a moment, cataloguing everything John and Dave told you about that battle. Right.

You raise your chin. “Ready when you are,” you call out.

He smiles. “Ladies first.”

Is this shitcanoe for real? What a riot. Fine. You dance fingers along your belt, feeling a spark of recognition from your team members whenever you skin makes contact with the ball. 

You chose.

“Malik,” you breathe out and toss him into the field.

Your Absol lands easy, effortlessly. His white fur gleams like snow in the bright afternoon light and you see your opponent squint against the blinding outline of your Pokémon.

Asshole smirks, looking far too confident for your liking. He sends out an honest-to-fuck Mamoswine. The huge furry beast lands with a resounding crash on the battlefield sending pebbles dancing at your feet and completely dwarfing Malik. It scythes its icy tusks and snorts. Paws at the ground. Shit, that thing is huge -you’re… mildly horrified. If it parked its hindquarters you’d disappear into the alternate dimension that is the creature’s hairy buttcrack. Wow. Okay, focus. Mamoswine; primary type is Ice, secondary Ground. Double weakness to Fire.

Fire Blast should do nicely thou—

It uses Ice Shard. It fucking uses Ice Shard. What the fuck? WHAT THE FUCK? Before Malik? It’s a goddamn _Mamoswine_. Malik’s naive, not to mention you fucking trained both your asses off to boost his speed in combat. You worked for that speed stat so hard Malik should be running circles around that Mamoswine.  

But there it is. Ice Shard. As soon as it hits, you know it’s bad. Malik _screams_ and your whole body numbs with barely repressed panic, what the fuck, what the fuck, no no no no no NO how is this even real? It tosses your Absol to the sun-baked earth like a piece of flotsam amidst glittering fragments of bladed ice. Malik lies stunned at your feet for a moment and it takes everything you have not to forfeit right there and then. Then, legs shaking, Malik gets up and your heart just about fucking bursts with pride. You know that if you hadn’t had a Focus Sash on him you’d already have lost your first Pokémon without even landing a hit.

Holy shit.

“Malik, Dig,” you say.

Which he does, with due speed. Can’t even blame him. You can hear a scoff from your opponent as your Absol burrows itself underground, clots of grass and sand flying every which way until he’s safely hidden. With your Pokémon safely out of harm’s way, Asshole has no choice but to give up a move. If he’s as good as he so clearly thinks he is, he’ll just hit you with Earthquake.

…he doesn’t hit you with Earthquake. Stone Edge goes wild, rocks as big as your fist harmlessly ricocheting in all directions without a scratch on anyone. Even without seeing it actually impact, you can tell it would’ve hit hard as shitblistering hell. The attack leaves small smoking craters all around you. Critical hit. Again.

Well then. You’ll cheerfully allow yourself to be throughly penetrated by a rusty screwdriver if Asshole isn’t the most competent cheater you ever did see. Ice Shard. Malik is Dark. Why the hell would an Ice attack so throughly devastate him? Not to mention one hit KO, first turn. Both attacks were critical and that big hairy mountain is uncanny fast. Too fast.

And big. Covered in thick, concealing hair. 

Malik manages to execute Fire Blast, and he does so perfectly. Energy packs thickly into the atmosphere and the small hairs on your arms rise in goosebumps despite the rapidly increasing temperature. Wavy lines distort the air before Malik, who braces -a spark, a small flame flickering into existence. Next thing you know a huge ball of fire roils over the battlefield, too bright, too hot, you have to squeeze your eyes against it until it passes. Your skin feels tight from the exposure and he air stinks of burning hair and ashes. The Mamoswine looks decidedly singed around the edges. 

Next turn, however, sparkling blue lances through the air and your Absol is taken out with another Ice Shard. Which, again, is critical.

Malik sinks with a soft fluting noise through his legs, and doesn’t get up again. You call him back, furiously promising him and yourself to spoil him into next century later. All of the Poké Puffs. All of them.

“Already one down, kid,” Asshole shouts at you. “You sure about this? Wouldn’t want any of your precious babies get hurt, right?”

“Alright,” you snarl. “That’s it. You asked for it.”

You send out Crabby.

There’s a pause where your opponent gapes at you and the little crustacean in pure consternation, and then Asshole begins to howl with mirth. Like actual, full body, pants pissing hilarity. Uh-huh. Cream yourself while you still can, you vile streak of anal secretion.

“Crabby,” you say and the little idiot skitters around to look at you attentively. “You know that move you’re not allowed to use?”

Crabby clicks a pincer at you. Somewhere far away you can hear Dave begin to laugh. “Yeah, that one. Go wild” -you clear your throat, cross your arms- “Crabby, _Knock Off_!”

Oh, what’s that? Is that dismay? Well, it fucking should be. Nobody is better at Knock Off than Crabby. You should know, because Crabby was born with that move, literally. Has giving you countless migraines by randomly deciding to be a little shit and knocking items out of everybody’s hands. Your own, your friends’ and just about any Pokémon unfortunate enough to be holding something. You have tried, in vain, to make him forget that godforsaken move, but he just up and fucking refused to. And now it finally pays off.

There’s no need to tell Crabby twice. He’s off like a shot before you can blink, scurrying sideways up the nearest tree trunk of a leg. A surprise trumpet from the Mamoswine as the little crab roots around in the dense mat of fur, followed by a tinkling clatter as Crabby knocks the items to the ground.

That’s right. Items. Plural. Crabby carries them over to you with obvious satisfaction, scatters them at your feet for your scrutiny.

“Well, well. Scope Lens, Choice Scarf and hey, what a surprise, Choice Band,” you nudge each item with your big toe. “If I didn’t know any better I’d say you were overcompensating for something.”

“I don’t do Tournament matches,” is Asshole’s petty retort. “So I’m quite free to do whatever I want.”

“Yes, squeal more excuses infantile breadcrumb, we’ll see how _CRABBY DIG!_ ” you scream, because saw him flick his fingers, that damn coward. Really has no fucking honor, has he?

An haphazard spray of ice blades strikes the ground, strafing across the molehill Crabby left in his wake. Still vicious, yes, but there’s a good score less of them and half snap uselessly upon impact. Miss Crabby entirely anyway, because he’s ever better at Dig than Malik. He’s long gone, hidden deep within the soil -soil that heaves upwards and streaks like an arrow towards your target. Grass erupts under Mamoswine’s thick legs and the Pokémon shrieks in dismay as Crabby goes straight for the vulnerable parts with his serrated pincers. That, combined with the force of Malik’s Fire Blast, is finally enough to take the big brute out.

You exhale, mutter low praise at Crabby. He clicks a little melody back at you.

Next up is a Simisear. It whirls into the battlefield jetting out a blaze of Flamethrower before it even lands, fast, too fast _again_ , damn it. You have Crabby take real good care of that, by having him rattle the Choice Scarf to the ground under half a minute.

“One trick Ponyta, aren’t you buddy?” you snort. Fine, two can play that game.

It’s almost ludicrously easy. To taunt him, you just have Crabby dig himself in, over and over again. It takes a little longer that way, sure, and it’s pretty dirty, but hey, you’re completely free do to whatever the fuck you want.

And this is perfectly within the rules. Even Tournament ones.

The sun is high in the sky by the time you’re done. You relish how he has to hold up a hand to shield his eyes, the abject fury plain on his face.

You won. With an under-evolved Krabby that barely reaches your knee with a penchant for snatching people’s stuff and digging up petunias. Revenge truly is sweet. You present him your most pleasant of smiles -all your teeth bare. Hold out your hand and curl fingers at him. “Fifteen thousand, I believe,” you coo at him.

It’s not that you actually expect him to be fair _now,_ after everything he’s proven himself capable of. You don’t expect him to pay up at all, actually. Scream and rage or go extra-snooty, maybe. Taunt you, ridicule you, yes.

But.

You don’t expect him to pull one last asshole move and bring out a third Pokémon in your acknowledged two-on-two battle. 

“ _MAGMORTAR!_ ” 

The bulky fire Pokémon has barely even touched down, fringed in flames so hot they glare white, when you’re already screaming: “CRABBY DIG!” at the top of your lungs, just in time for him to avoid the thick churning inferno engulfing the spot he’d been standing a mere second ago.

You’re… honestly surprised. You know this shitbag had a serious attitude problem, not to mention some truly skewed morals. Still.

Fine. “Screw you,” you sigh, tired of this petty bullshit. Time to end this farce.

Crabby, shocking though it might seem, knows another move besides his beloved Knock Off and Dig. It took you years to teach him, because Crabby is stubborn to a fault and basically completely uninterested in anything that doesn’t match his agenda —whatever that is (seems like digging mindless holes and being a thief is his only MO). There’s a plume of dirt as Crabby comes back up, causing the Magmortar to howl.

“Crabby,” you say evenly. “Crabhammer.”

Which he does. Crabby skitters up to the Pokémon in fast, zigzagging darts, barely skimming by the all-consuming balls of plasma blorfing out of the Magmortar’s goddamn arms. Just when he’s all but under the other’s feet, his right pincer begins to gather bright, glowing energy to it. Pretty blue winks of light that grow bigger, and denser until your eyes hurt from the white glare of it. And then Crabby basically just taps him. _Bok!_ A vertigo inducing moment where time and space is pulled inwards just the slightest bit, before pulsing outwards like a small-scale supernova, whipping your curls away from your forehead and completely blinding you for a moment. The actual roar of the shockwave comes two seconds later. You ears are ringing and involuntary tears stream down your cheeks as you gasp for precious air.

In a perfectly circular spot of scorched earth lies the Magmortar. 

KO.

There’s a blaze of pixelated red as the Pokémon is automatically recalled to its Poké Ball, leaving you and Crabby standing victorious.

You know. _Again_.

Asshole is definitely looking a little wan around the edges. Don’t miss the way his fingers jerk towards his belt, either. You smile, because Dave saw it too -has already got Caledfwlch pointed between his shoulder blades.

“I don’t think so, buddy,” he says, giving him a warning jab. Liv’s straddling the nape of his neck, little paws buried in his pale white hair. She’s sticking out her tongue like a badass. You approve.

With that, finally, Mister Douchebag Deluxe drops the attitude like a wet sack of hot shit. His shoulders go slack and his face goes ugly as the smarminess swirls down the drain like someone pulled the plunger. Allowing the wary tension to flow out of your shoulders, you walk over. 

“Any last words?” you taunt, crossing your arms over your chest and looming as best as you can. All things considered, you’re succeeding pretty well.

You get a flinty glower in return. “I only have nine thousand,” he mumbles with churlish satisfaction.

Like this, he truly looks miserable. Pathetic most of all. He’s not that much older than either you or Dave, actually. Just another dumb kid that wants to be Champion. If you take his money, it’s over for him. He’ll have to walk his ass straight back down the motherfucking mountain of doom, because there is simply no way he can generate enough cash to properly stock up and prepare for a confrontation with the Elite Four. It took months to scrape together fifteen thousand and there were three of you.

If you take this kid’s money, you’re effectively obliterating any shot he has at becoming Champion for a really long fucking time.

You consider that long and hard. 

And then you remember John and the wet spikes of his eyelashes and the stupid-ass tissue that wasn’t enough to soak up all the tears because this prime piece of shit made his Buneary bleed.

Decision made. Wow, that was easy. You stick out your hand. “Wait, what’s that sound?” you go, widening your eyes at Dave in a cruel pantomime of innocent surprise.

“I don’t know, man,” Dave responds ever so beautifully. Cups his hand around his ear. “Kind of sounded like ka-ka-ka- _kaCHING_.”

“That’s right,” you agree and flick your fingers in a ‘pay up’ gesture.

Dave actually breaks out in a grin. “I hope you have burn heal, because you had your ass _served_ to you by my buddy Karkat.”

Just as the both of you tap knuckles together, John re-appears. Finally. Looking like he fucking rolled down the mountain instead of climbing it as he trots up at you, clearly beside himself with excitement.

“Guys, guys, check it out, oh man, I fouuundWHAT THE _HELL_?!” he stutters to an unsteady stop, mouth hanging slack in shock. Turns around in disbelief. “What the fuck happened here?”

You and Dave do a cursory glance of the area. Scorched walls, smouldering craters, crystalline spikes of ice that have barely begun to melt, …whoops?

“Uh,” you begin, but Dave talks right over you.

“Karkat defended your honor,” he says and you elbow him because what the fuck, Strider, don’t say it like _that_. “And it was awesome.”

*

“I honestly hadn’t even recognised him!” John exclaims, grinning at you.

He’s been doing that a lot, grinning and smiling. At you. _A lot_ a lot. Rather like Dave’s been singing your praises all afternoon and up ’til now. You have absolutely no idea how to handle it. Hunch your shoulders against the chill of the onsetting night instead, as you fight to keep your expression under control. 

“That, bro, is what pure defeat looks like,” Dave regales as he roasts his corncob in the flames of the campfire. “By the way, the hell was that last move again? I thought that unholy light of pure amazeballs was going to fry my eyebrows off.”

“Crabhammer,” you say, peering intently into the flames to make sure your corn gets even exposure on all sides. It is imperative that the corncob achieves maximum toastyness. Yes. “Water type move. Double damage against pure fire.” Shrug. 

“Whatever dude, John, you should’ve seen it, it was —hey!”

There goes the corncob. Into the fire. Knocked out of his hands by Crabby.

“Knock it off, you brat,” you tell him, trying to bait him away from the crime scene with a Poké Puff so Dave can try to salvage his dinner. Urgh, now you’re never going to be able to make him forget that move, aren’t you? Fantastic.

John snickers. “Knock off Knock Off,” he says and winks, all _‘get it?_ ’.

You roll your eyes. “Hilarious.”

“No, listen, it’s so cool that you beat him like that!” John says, for what must be the hundredth time. He wasn’t even there, though. Overexcitable dweeboramus as always.

Dave manages to hook the corncob out of the coals with another stick and promptly burns his fingers as he tries to pick it up. Hisses and flaps his hand in the air to cool it down. He’d look like a total tool if he weren’t also side-eyeing you, suddenly serious. John, too, for that matter.

“What?” you say, forever suspicious. Touch your mouth and cheeks, wipe at your chin. Maybe there’s something on your face?

“Karkat,” Dave says after a moment. “It really was amazing. It would never have occurred to me he’d be hiding all those stat boosting items.”

“Yeah,” John chimes in. “I had no idea, and Liv got really hurt. It’s just that, dude, wow, you are really good at this stuff, okay? I wouldn’t have been able to catch Skylark without your help, either,” he points a finger at the Swablu roosting on his head like a poofy blue hat.

“You took out three fully evolved Pokémon with a _Krabby_ ,” Dave stresses, and then adds hurriedly: “And you, Malik.” Reaches out to scritch an exhausted, but revived Malik under the jaw.

Big, dark eyes turn up towards you questioningly at the mention of his name. “Good boy, Malik,” you hum, because that’s easier than coming up with an answer to… that.

You’re _not_ glowing, alright? It’s just the heat from the fire.

“And me and Dave’ll be facing the Elite Four soon,” John goes on into your awkward silence. “Maybe you could… you know, give us some tips? Teach us what to look out for and stuff.”

“And stuff,” you repeat trying your best not to smile.

“Yeah,” John grins at you. 

You breathe in deeply, running both hands over your face as you try to wrap your mind around the fact that John and Dave apparently have such confidence in your skills they’re asking for advice on how to become Champion. Fuck. “Look,” you sigh. “I can’t teach you how to beat the Elite Four by tomorrow. I couldn’t teach you how to beat them even if I had days, fuck, months. It’s something that you either do, or don’t.”

Bright firelight has shadows dancing along the curves of their faces as they consider you attentively.

“…but,” you continue, lifting your eyes to theirs and meeting either of them in turn. “I believe you guys can do this.”

“Oh,” Dave goes, rather genially. He’s extremely taken aback by that, you tell by how his skin pinches at the corners of his eyes, the way his mouth goes soft and unsure. He’s always weirdly overcome by any morsel of praise that flies his way.

John, too, but he also -typically- looks slightly mischievous. “Group hug?” he suggests coyly after a moment, wagging his brows.

“See article No under paragraph No, chapter Hell No, in the great book of Fuck No, John Egbert, if you touch me I will eat you for dinner, so help me,” you inform him in dire tones.

“Uh-huh,” John smirks. “That’s not what you said last night, mister ‘this big lump of rock we’re stranded on gets cold enough my dick is about to detach itself and move to warmer climates so you better scoot your malformed flesh suits closer to keep me warm and you might not be fucking useless for once in your lives’.”

“Yeah, about that,” Dave chimes in. “Someone was laying on my arm, which, you know: _ouch_ , and John, Skylark tried to perch on my face. Blue feathery rump all over the place. Blue feathery rump on my lips. Pretty sure my nose encountered a blue feathery sphincter. I nearly died.”

“She doesn’t know any better!” John counters, forever defending the worst of his Pokémon’s habits. 

Comfortable, you let their bickering fade to the background. Concentrate on nurturing that warm, happy feeling that has been kindled in your chest. Gather it real good and close, focus on it and tell yourself: remember this, you better fucking remember this feeling, this moment, this right here.

Because this is the last night. Tomorrow you’ll have reached the Pokémon League.

 

Your journey is over. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let’s have a heartfelt THANK YOU for [pinkstarpirate](http://pinkstarpirater.tumblr.com/), my co-Pokéstuck creator in arms! It was Pinkstar who came up with the mechanics for the battle scene! Which Pokémon, which moves, when what happened -not only that, but she also suggested what the last scene might be AND provided invaluable feedback and support as I was writing it. 100% amazing, so standing ovation!
> 
> Enthusiasm, comments and incoherent keysmashing GREATLY appreciated!
> 
> For those interested in more Pokéstuck verse tidbits and randomness (such as how Dave acquired Caledfwlch, or who does the chores) feel free to visit my [Pokéstuck tag](http://everlind.tumblr.com/tagged/pok%C3%A9stuck) on my tumblr. Likewise, if you have questions of your own always feel free to ask them (IC asks are also welcome).


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Detailed info on the boys' teams: [Karkat](http://everlind.tumblr.com/post/87516195308), [John](http://everlind.tumblr.com/post/95754863263), [Dave](http://everlind.tumblr.com/post/79800294622).  
> Trainer sprites for the boys by [Pi](http://thepioden.tumblr.com/)!  
> Karkat's Egg Sprites by [Asuka](http://asukaskerian.tumblr.com/)!  
> 

Dave is taking it hard.

You don’t know what to do.

You don’t know what to _do_. 

For the longest time you stare at the back of his head. What do you even say? What is there to say, really, after this? They didn’t make it. 

This high up the view stretches on for miles. Even the sun catches differently, throwing the grass at your feet into violent relief, every single blade of grass brightly gilded on one side, shadowed on the other. Silhouettes of clouds glide along the ground, blotting out all light as they travel across the peak of mountain in a hurry. The line of Dave’s hunched back is obscured, and it reads like defeat. But then the cloud moves on and sunlight crowns his pale blonde hair. Somehow that’s even worse.

Fuck, you wish he didn’t have to go and sit on the edge of the biggest goddamn mountain to ever have been bullied towards the skies by some tectonic bullshittery. Dave’s spectacularly unafraid of heights, him and John both, but the idiot doesn’t seem to appreciate that he’s barely a fart away from plummeting to his death. At this height, he’d probably shatter apart if he ever hit the ground, like an overripe piece of fruit.

As if you tempted fate by daring to think it, a gust of wind buffets the peak of the mountain. Dave’s shirt rises away from his skin and you can see his fingers grip fistfuls of grass to keep himself anchored. Your heart leaps into your throat, and you’re running, frantic -but then the wind dies down and Dave’s still there.

Shit, the utter moron. You wipe your sweating palms on your jeans, try to swallow the throb of your pulse back down into your chest as you close the distance between you both. Doing so means getting closer to the edge and shit, shit, shit, oh fuuuuck that’s. That’s a long way down. Can’t even see the bottom, the ground, there’s only this sheer drop, impossibly deep, before shreds of mist hugging the mountainside steal away the rest. Or clouds. Okay, those are probably clouds. Yeah. Double shit.

Even though the mechanics are the same as sitting down on a riverbank -sit on your ass, swing legs over the edge, maybe kick them a little- this right here has you shaky kneed and faintly nauseous with vertigo. You lower yourself to the ground and scoot yourself forward on your ass the last few paces (fuuuuck fuckfuck that’s high you’re going to fucking die) until you can dangle your legs over the edge. Feels like gravity is trying to suck you over the rim, and you carefully don’t look down.

Caledfwlch is planted deep into the ground next to you, both blades biting into the rock at an angle so they can remain crossed. The wind howls, then hitches into an hiccup and you grip the grass the way Dave’s doing, afraid you’ll go ever the edge before you realize it. Pink tassels flick against your ear and you look sideways in time to see Caledfwlch wink at you. Well, you think that she does, but it’s a bit of a gamble as each blade only has one eye. 

No way she’d let either of you drop.

You exhale. Finally steal a glance at Dave.

Should you say something?

Suddenly you desperately wish John was here, he’d know what to say. It’d be awful and blunt and too rawly honest, but he’d know what to say. He’d be able to cajole Dave out of it, somehow. John’d understand better, too, what Dave’s feeling. Sure, you feel… awful. Weirdly achy under your sternum and wrong in your stomach, but you did not just have your biggest dream crushed. Over two years of traveling. Of training. Of painstakingly collecting all eight badges. Of caring for your Pokémon, of holding the same desire in your hearts as one, unspoken. Gone. 

The only thing you can do is feel like shit _for_ them.

But John’s asleep, curled up in the grass with Malik and Scratch standing over him. Well, not asleep. Not really. He told you he wanted some space so you gave it to him. John had a spectacular tantrum earlier, screaming and raging and ranting before bursting into tears. The sleeve of your shirt is still wet from where he pressed his face, and _fuck_ , you hate to see John cry. Those clear tracks sliding down his cheeks flay you raw and you’re afraid you might do anything - _anything_ \- to make it better.

Strange thing is… you wish Dave would cry.

Instead he pulls it all in, tries to bundle it up and stow it out if sight, like it’s none of your goddamn business. Doesn’t even acknowledge you, just sits there hunching like some statuette made from brittle glass. Goes to show how much of a complete idiot he is, because it is your business. It really fucking is. He and John both came into your life like an explosion, and made you fucking care and now this absolute dildo thinks he can just check out again? They _made_ themselves your business. 

Would be easier if you just knew what to say. You don’t, so you sit next to him in silence and gaze into the distance as the minutes stretch on. You think that smear of white at the horizon is the Frost Cavern spewing icy cold all the way to Snowbelle. It’s gorgeous, Kalos. Seeing it from above. The sky is a merciless blue and the world stretched out at your feet.

Not really. Not anymore.

Do… the lot of you just go home now?

Your face goes a little numb at the thought. Your chest, your heart, too. Your stomach wrings around itself in sheer misery at the idea of having to go back to- to- not that it was so bad, you were pretty okay there with Slick and Ms. Paint. Really. But that’s not home. It never was.

You’ve always know you were pretty self-centred. But you just hate that you’re thinking about yourself and how this affects you, while John and Dave had their ambitions dashed to shit. They’re not things you get to have, objects of comfort you don’t want to share, like their defeat isn’t worse than you wanting everything to stay the same, to just… _stay_. With them. There isn’t anywhere left for you to go. Not after this.

Dave parts his lips, and air rushes past his lips with intent, like he’s gathering energy to say something. You wait for him to find the words.

“What will I tell bro?”

You stare at him, mouth open. A pause. You don’t know very much about Dave’s family. Just that he has two brothers and that it involved lots of Squirtle. He doesn’t say anything else as he pulls up the fistfuls of grass he was holding and brings them in white-knuckled knots to his thighs. Unfurls his fingers and lets the wind snatch the grass out of his palms, carry it off to fuck knows where. You imagine it being pulled through cold emptiness for miles before they might finally touch the earth again. Maybe surprise some other traveler with a random grass shower, or just get caught on the trees. Maybe it’ll fall into that small lake on Route 21 and drift across the water.

You still don’t know what to do. So you reach out and take his hand.

His fingers are cold and his knuckles are scarred and there’s dirt under his fingernails. Your own curl around them, warming them against your palm. After a second Dave tucks his pinkie around your thumb. Your throat goes tight. 

Footsteps. John -you don’t know when you learned to recognise them, but. Well, you do, and those are John’s.

He joins you both, sitting down at Dave’s other side with all the ease and grace you didn’t have, just swinging his feet out into the hungry open like he’s sinking down on a couch in the living room. 

The three of you just sit there for a few seconds. Wait, four -Caledfwlch’s tassel ruffles against the edges of your curls again. And then John puts an arm around Dave’s shoulder, without even looking at either of you.

You don’t know when exactly Dave begins to cry, but soon enough silent tears are running down his cheeks.

*

John and Dave are asleep in the tent.

It’s only late afternoon, really, but both of them are exhausted from the adrenaline and stress. And it’s not like you’ve got anywhere to be anymore.

Okay, you really need to stop thinking about that.

It’s a nice place, you remember thinking so when you passed by on the way up. Still too many possibilities to plummet to a messy splattered end to your liking, but what can you do. It’s not like you have a problem with heights, but the Pokémon League was really pushing your comfort boundaries. If you crane your head until the back of your skull is wedged against your shoulders you can still see the edges of its nicely manicured lawn.

Strange. Having time. To just lazily sit in the sunlight and do nothing. Sometimes the wind will turn and you’ll find yourself misted with drops from the waterfalls nearby. You rub the moisture into the skin of your arm and scrunch your face up at the resulting muddy mix. You really need to wash. The bags are still stacked outside, so you could get clean clothes if you wanted to. Shit, you might as well take the time to do laundry. Can hardly make the trip down this godforsaken mountain in your bare asses.

Inside the tent you can hear John say something, and Dave answer him with one soft word. Pause, before John murmurs something that makes Dave laugh.

The flap of the tent is zipped only half-up and you can see Dave in his habitual spot; right next to the entrance as though his string bean physique would be a deterrent to any would-be aggressors. Can’t see much of John except for the arm he’s wrapped around Dave’s waist, who’s still laughing a little.

They’ll be alright.

Might as well wash up now.

Right. You pack the last change of clean clothes you have left (okay, you kind of nick one of John’s t-shirts) and head towards the river. Dave has Rose and LOHAC on sentry duty, they’ll be as safe as they’re going to get.

The water is, shit, _cold_. Like biting cold. Your whole body tightens against it in protest and you stand knee-deep and shivering before you dare lower your butt down. _Ohholyfuckshit cold! cold!_ your testicles might’ve just inverted ngghh. But your buttocks are being soaked. Progress. Now the rest.

Eventually you adjust to the temperature and are scrubbing down with a well worn washcloth to get rid of the sweat and dust. You’ve found a rock on the river bottom to perch on so you don’t have to get mud up your asscrack.Such luxury, you may swoon. The furrows of skin over your knuckles stubbornly refuses to relinquish the grime caked into them and you’re rubbing at your fingers with rising ire until suddenly something goes _plip!_ into the river water.

You blink. Raise a wet hand to find warmth on your cheek.

Oh hey. You’re crying. 

Shit, that dumb. That’s really fucking stupid, what a goddamn idiot. 

You can’t stop. 

The tears just keep pouring out, hot and fast. It’s all you can do to be quiet about it, stifling your sobs behind gritted teeth and pressing your eyes closed hard, but you can hear horrible little moist hitches in your breathing. The pressure in your skull seems to increase the more you cry, so you give up on wiping furious fists over your cheeks and just let it happen. 

You don’t want this to be over, and you don’t know what to do about it, and you can’t do anything, can’t fix it, can’t somehow make it unhappen and you’re _tired_. As well as queasy with anxiety.

Worst is that you’re not entirely sure why you are crying. Maybe it’s the stress, but whenever you have to think about _after_ , even an after that is just standing up and getting out of the river has more tears coming up.

Something splashes into water to your right and shit, wow, this would be such shitty timing to get attacked by a wild Pokémon now, with you naked and blubbering like a child surrounded by heart-stopping cold waterfalls. However, it is not a wild Pokémon.

It is Malik, white fur of his belly skimming over the surface of the water as he comes towards you.

He mews inquisitively, peering with red eyes at your own. “I’m okay,” you tell him. Malik snuffs at your face, smearing tears over your overheated cheek.

Another splash. Huge enough to rock the water around your hips and shift your butt across the stone. 

Shouty.

Marching towards you and pumping his fists as he works against the friction of the water, and then he’s right there and dropping huge purple arms around your shoulders.

One by one, your team gathers around you. Nubby’s on your knees and has deferentially given you her bone to hold, and Krabby is an orange blur under the water at your feet. Sick is grooming your hair with clumsy pincers and Scratch has perched his huge flat head on your forearm. Malik keeps licking at your cheek and it makes you cry even more.

You’re covered in Pokémon, your team, and there’s choked up, helpless laughter between your sobs.

*

By the time you’re back at the camp and air-drying, you’ve managed to stop crying. Your head still feels stuffy, but you think if you’d cry anymore you’d shrivel up like a dried-out raisin.

Just as well. You’re done being a snivelling disaster. 

One thing Victory Road has going for itself are the goddamn sunsets.

Those are breathtaking, filling the whole sky; the immensity of them are surreal. You get to see peach and rosy pink snag on the edges of the clouds travelling in herd overhead. All sweet and pretty before bleeding to deep, fierce reds. The sky goes copper bright and you watch great spotlights of sunshine sneak down and stroke the landscape. 

John rolls out of the tent, hair on end. Flaps a hello in your approximate direction before wandering off towards the river, shedding clothes as he goes. One last glimpse of his bare ass hopping with a splash into the water. You wave Scratch after him, before he gets munched on by a peckish Lombre. 

“You washed our clothes,” Dave mumbles, sticking his head out and squinting at the bushes where you draped the sodden articles to dry.

You shrug, keep your eyes down in case they’re still red and bruised looking. “Not much to do around here for entertainment.”

Dave grunts, shuffling out of the tent on his knees with an egg cradled under each arm.

“One egg, two hands,” you remind him.

“I got it, bro, relax.”

He does, but you keep sharp eyes on him all the same until he’s actually sitting down with the eggs safe in the cradle of his legs. John returns dripping water and smelling distinctly of minerals. You have a glimpse of dark hairy legs before Dave’s crying out: “Oh sweet merciful Arceus on a pink Vespa my virgin eyes.”

“I’m sorry my legendary swag is too much for you, Dave,” John fires back automatically.

It’s almost normal. But not quite. Dave doesn’t hide his face between the twin crests of the eggs as much as he just rests it there for a moment, and John sits poking through the bags for clothes longer than necessary, looking distracted. 

You don’t even bother to say anything.

Finally clothed, John whines about holding Casey, and rock-paper-scissors Dave over it. He wins, carries the egg off to sit down with it, making himself to third point of the triangle between you and Dave. Begins buffing up the shell with a rag that used to be someone’s shirt. You almost smile.

It’s later, when the sun is a violent red disk burning towards its death at the horizon in the far distance and you’re done eating, that you finally gather enough energy to say something.

“So,” you grunt out. “Now what?”

Dave’s slumped over and curled around Slimer. Just blinks at you listlessly, maybe a little confused, like he might have expected you to have the answer to that. 

“Well…” John begins, frowning. Licks his lips and swallows, throat working around the words. “I don’t know about you guys, but I don’t want to go home.”

There it is. Just like that. Your heart beats so fast, so hard, you lift a palm to rub it over your chest. Then you turn to look at Dave, who’s already looking at you with identical relief on his face.

“Shit,” he breathes out. 

John tilts his head at him. “That’s a good shit, right?”

“It’s such a good shit, it’s a goddamn king among shits, bro. It’s such an epic shit you’d better stick a crown and sceptre in that steaming pile of exquisitely shat out poop. It’s so good, so divine even Trubbish dare not thread on such hallowed shittiness, instead they erected a temple and stamped a whole religion out of the ground. That’s how good a shit it is. The best shit, John, the _best_.”

John grins at him from ear-to-ear. You roll your eyes and don’t maybe smirk a little at all. Nope. 

“Right,” John nods. “New plan.”

“Does the plan involve napalm?” Dave asks. John makes a face at him. Dave lifts both hands in surrender. “Okay, got it. Not my division.”

“Karkat?” John says, and shit, he’s deferring to you. You’re briefly knocked breathless by the sheer affection rushing through you at an intensity you never knew was even possible. Once more, you worry your palm over your chest.

You nod your head to let him know you heard, and press your lips into a thin line as you try to corral the sheer relief safely into a corner of your heart, out of the way. Press your hand harder into your flesh.

Exhale.

“It depends on how serious the two of you are about becoming Champion?” you say.

Neither of them so much as bothers to answer with words. One look at their faces is enough.

“Alright,” you agree. “Staying put and marshalling your strength to try again a month later isn’t going to work.”

“But-“ John begins, frowning, and you know that was pretty much the extent of his brilliant plan. 

“No, won’t work, it’s a bad plan.”

“Hey, but if-“

“Shush!”

“But I just-“

“Shut it!”

“Can I just—“

“Nope.”

“C’mon only-“

“Zip it.”

Dave’s head snaps left and right like he’s watching a tennis match. John scowls at you and you glower right back. 

“Do I need to put you two into time-out?” Dave asks mildly.

You and John turn to frown at him. Dave makes a zipping motion across his mouth, mimes throwing away the key. Once a-fucking-gain John opens his idiot wordhole, and you stab a finger at him in warning. Closes it again, jaw working around stubbornness.

“I think I can help,” you tell them. Breathe in and collect yourself. “I know I can help.”

“Yes, help us, senpai. Educate our ignorant asses in the ways of supreme Pokémon badassery, we need your boundless wisdom to become real Pokémon Trainers,” Dave says. “I’ll get my sailor fuku.”

“Oh my god,” you say.

John blinks at Dave. “You actually brought that thing?”

“ _Oh my god_ ,” you repeat.

“Is senpai pleased?”

“I’m going to kill you dead. I will have Malik set you on fire.” 

“This conversation just got significantly more x-rated,” John points out idly. 

“Just… fucking _shut up_ , whenever you two open your blistering noise gashes I am reminded that your idiocy is forged from the very shitstain of the universe.”

“Okay, we’ll settle on sensei. No short skirts fluttering in sudden, inexplicable breezes for you. No panty shots. That’s right. The world just shed a single perfect tear for that loss.”

“ _Dave_ ,” you bite out. “Shut up. I am trying to tell you your team’s movesets have the tactical applications of a used diaper.”

 _Boom_.

Yeah okay, you meant to break it to them more gently. Argh. Of course, this has John -professional dipshit extraordinaire- giggling like a shitheel. 

“Yeah, laugh it the fuck up, you assnoodle. Because you’re so much better off with your four-man team of which half isn’t even fully evolved. I’ve seen you fight, and it’s like watching a hammer squish an ant. You just use brute force.”

“I do not!” John says indignantly.

“Uh, yeah, you totally fucking do!” you hiss. “I bet you have not a single half-baked clue about how type weakness even work.”

“Dude, please,” John scoffs. “Fire beats grass, grass beats water, water beats fire.”

“Ooooh,” you go, applauding sarcastically. “Three out of eighteen. Consider me wowed.”

John rolls his eyes. “I totally do, man.”

“Yeah? Poison and Rock, what do you use?”

“Uuuh…”

“BZZT! You’re dead! Steel, what do you use?”

“Fairy?”

“ _No_ , you snotnosed asswaffle, Fairy’s weak against Steel.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, ‘oh’ sounds about right,” you tell him, pained, as you throw both hands up. “See? That’s what I’m talking about. You guys are good, shit, I mean that. I really do, okay? I meant it when I said I believe you guys can do this. Have you any idea how many fail at even gathering all eight badges? What you did is amazing, okay, it really is. And shit, Dave, you got all the way to the fourth member of the Elite Four, and you, John, to the third. That’s so fucking close.”

“Not close enough,” Dave says, voice low.

“Next time, you’ll win,” you tell them. “I’ll make sure of it.”

For a moment, Dave just blinks at you. It’s dark enough he’s got his shades jammed into his hair, so you get to see the slow sweep of his lashes as he considers you. Then the corners of his eyes crinkle. “Shit, John, better wax your ass and smack some powder on that baby, I think we just arrived at Bootcamp Karkat.”

“Boo, I wanted to go to Nimbasa city,” John sticks out his tongue petulantly. “Bootcamp Karkat doesn’t have a Ferris Wheel.”

“Fuck the Ferris Wheel, I’ll give you the ride of your life.”

John raises his brows.

Shit. Oh fuck. You backpedal. “Wait, fuck I meant like a harrowing ride. The sort that leaves you all sweaty and shaking. A hard ride.”

“Oh really?” John hums, giving you an absolutely shit-eating smirk.

“Goddammit, shut up, I meant that metaphorically.”

“Sure you did,” John coos.

You punch him in the side -mindful of Casey. John just snickers and rolls onto his back, egg cradled against his belly.

“Alright, you’re going to test drive our asses to hell and back,” Dave says. “And then what?”

“And then moveset grids,” you tell him. 

“Oh hell no.”

“Hell yes,” you fire back. “But first we’re going to see a friend of mine in Santalune.” 

After all, it’s been a while since you saw Sollux’ festering facial stinkhole. Time to rectify that.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those interested in more Pokéstuck verse tidbits and randomness (such as how Dave acquired Caledfwlch, or who does the chores) feel free to visit my [Pokéstuck tag](http://everlind.tumblr.com/tagged/pok%C3%A9stuck) on my tumblr. Likewise, if you have questions of your own always feel free to ask them (IC asks are also welcome).


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Detailed info on the boys' teams: [Karkat](http://everlind.tumblr.com/post/87516195308), [John](http://everlind.tumblr.com/post/95754863263), [Dave](http://everlind.tumblr.com/post/79800294622).  
> Trainer sprites for the boys by [Pi](http://thepioden.tumblr.com/)!  
> Karkat's Egg Sprites by [Asuka](http://asukaskerian.tumblr.com/)!  
> BONUS: [Sollux'](http://everlind.tumblr.com/post/101197762588) team & [Mituna's team](http://everlind.tumblr.com/post/101197768643).

"Double-ply toilet paper," John says.

Dave moans.

"A toilet."

"Be still my beating heart," Dave clutches his chest. 

"Dave, Dave... A bed! With sheets and a mattress and and-- pillows!"

"No, too much, I can't take it anymore! Mercy, I beg of you," Dave swoons dramatically, staggering from one side of the road to the other.

"Showers," John sighs, eyes dreamily distant as though reminiscing about a childhood sweetheart.

Dave finishes the zig of his zag and bumps into John's side, slinging an arm around his shoulders. "Juice boxes," he adds reverently, and then they both groan as though in sheer pornographic ecstasy.

You walk ahead, frowning avidly at your PokéApp and hoping you appear sane enough nobody suspects you belong with the dumbass duo.  

Lies, you're grateful for their banter and the sense of normalcy it brings. The hike down the mountain was anything but pleasant, especially now they had to carry every wet, cold clot of their disappointment with them. Dave is quieter and John is moodier and you're struggling with guilt, feeling as though you may have jinxed their chances at victory by wishing for the journey to never end.

Not exactly conducive for happy happy fun times.

A trainer approaches with hopeful intent as you walk through her line of sight. All you do is crane your head sideways slowly, eyes narrowed to slits. She back-pedals so fast she crashes into the green fence behind her. Yeah, you better fucking run. Amateur. 

You can hear John apologise to her in your wake. 

Seriously though, all these hopped-up, unproved trainer wannabes who’re still wet behind the ears need t _o calm the fuck down_ , because you don’t have the time to curb the sparky geyser of motivation spurting out of their asses by shoving a Poké ball into their colon. You have places to be, friends to pester.

Your PokéApp pings: where are you a22hole2?

Not bothering to answer, you shove it into your bag. The three of you troop into Santalune.

Of course John and Dave need to drive the point home until the damn thing nearly inverts itself out of shame of having been birthed by their blithering inanity.

“Dave, Dave!” John whispers in overwrought muted awe. “ _A bike_.”

“John, look… human beings.”

“Wow.”

“We’ve entered the twilight zone, bro. No going back now. Shit just got real.”

You trudge ahead, massaging your temples. You know this guy who likes to lace the piercings in his mouth shut. You’ve been thinking about that a lot. It would solve so many of your problems.

People stare. Not just a passing glance, but genuinely swining their heads over their shoulders to follow your passage. In the reflective windowpane of a storefront window you see why. 

You look… feral. All three of you. It jolts you so badly, you nearly trip over your own fucking feet because of all the quality gaping at your reflection you're engaged in. Granted, it’s been a while since you saw your own wretched mug in anything else but Dave’s tiny pocket mirror for, shit, weeks. But this you did not expect. That you lost weight was a fucking no brainer, you’ve been tying year jeans around your waist with a piece of rope like a wayward urchin -that’s how hideously baggy they are. Not that you’re skinny, you meticulously stocked up for Victory Road. Lean, though. Your clothes look like they’ve been scavenged; weather bleached and worn. And _dirty_ , holy fuck.

Shit, _you_ wouldn’t want to run into yourself in an alley, you’d piss yourself out of fright. Clearly it’s as bad as you think it is; you ring the doorbell and it’s Mituna who opens. He actually _recoils_. Makes a guy feel real appreciated.

“Holy ssshfuck!” he exclaims. “ _Karkat_?”

“Hi,” you answer drily.

“Wow!” he blinks. Blinks again. Toddlerfists at his eyes like it might clear them of the sheer horribad you’re emitting. “You smell like something that died,” he ever so helpfully informs you.

“That’s eau de Victory Road,” Dave butts in from over your shoulder. “It’s new. Like it? You can have my shirt for five grand. Wait make that six, John just sneezed on it.”

“More like eau de buttsweat.” Mituna scrunches up his nose. “Come in, I guess.”

“Gee, thanks,” you mutter, bending down to pry off your mud-and-you-don’t-want-to-fucking-know-what-else caked boots.

You’ve barely wrenched off one shoe before you’re assaulted by something round and pink uttering high pitched nattering noises. 

“Looks like you got a fan,” John says, smiling.

You finish taking off your shoes, set them aside and pick up Jigglypuff. Who cheers and burrows against your throat, nuzzling. You fish in your pocket for a Poké puff. 

“There’s an incriminating story behind this, I just know it,” Dave says.

Why not? Not like you have any dignity left when they both know you got freckles on your goddamn ass. “This is Mr. Biggles.”

“I knew it,” Dave says with deep satisfaction.

“Yeah, laugh it up, Strider. When I was eight Jack got him for me after Ms. Paint said that I should have more age appropriate Pokémon.” This, after Sick -back then still a Scyther- had ‘accidentally’ Fury Cutter’d your bookshelf in half.

“He’s cute!” John says. Liv peers over his shoulder at the Jigglypuff, nose twitching. Probably wondering whether she’s about to be dethroned as the token adorable and spoiled-rotten sidekick.

“You can’t have him!” Mituna interjects. “Traded fair and square.”

“Don’t think they’re here to trade, babe,” someone adds from further down the hallway. “More like here to shower, phoo _ey_!”

“That’d be fucking lovely,” you agree. “Hi, Latula.”

“Hey, boys.” The s trails off into a lingering z. Wink at the end.

Latula has always been a total babe, and you’re faintly amused to see John nearly walk into the doorframe for how starstruck he is. Loser.

The full quota of brain blistering idiocy is achieved when Sollux comes trotting down the stairs. He looks exactly like you remembered him. An overly ambitious noodle with legs that went for a walk. “Fucking finally,” he says. “I thought you got lost and died, man.”

“Good to see you, too, you steaming pile of vomit,” you tell him as you both clasp hands and grin at each other. “You’re sure your father is okay with this?”

“If I were you I’d get cleaned up and shaved before he sees you or he might just stuff you into a box and express mails you to mister Vantas with the next Delibird out of town,” Sollux tells you, scrunching up his nose at your appearance. “What happened to you guys, because holy shit?”

“Victory Road,” you say.

“Oh,” Sollux blinks. “Seriously? And did-“

“I’ll tell you later, man, okay?” you cut him off swiftly, giving him a meaningful look. There’s no need for John and Dave to hear their failure announced to a total stranger. Every single goddamn step down that mountain was like having salt rubbed into their wounds. Enough.

First things first. “Do you have place where we can release our Pokémon?”

“Yeah, sure, come out back.”

Some sorry sacks of waste might still use their backyard for barbecuing and suntanning, who knows. Anyone with Pokémon knows there’s better uses for open spaces like that, and the Captors are no exception. It’s a little crowded, but all three teams scatter in relief. Sick goes off to make trouble with a couple of Raichu squatting around a generator and gets zapped for his trouble, scarlet disaster that he is.

Shower time, fucking finally. John and Dave rock-paper-scissor over who gets to go first.

You picked up some luxury items earlier. Shampoo, conditioner, hand lotion… well shit, it’ll be a goddamn party. Sollux lends you clean shirts and you fish your nicest jeans out of your pack. At last, it’s your turn. You step under the spray with a sigh, then groan faintly when hot water drums against your aching shoulders. Warm water. It’s been since _Snowbelle_.

The tiles are slick and dripping with steam, and there’s a residual hint of soap and sweat and dust lingering. You wash your hair and body once with normal soap, then again, then your hair with actual shampoo. Overdose on conditioner, before sitting on your ass in the tub and trying to comb the tangles out of your curls.

You grit your teeth and snarl through every sharp tug, loud enough for Dave to stick his head in to check whether you haven’t engaged the shower curtain in a battle to the bitter end. He leaves the door askew and hunkers down besides the tub to help out. Is valiantly attempting to brave your knotty hair when Sollux saunters by and gives you both the weirdest look ever.

Oh. Right. Yeah, this probably looks really freaking strange. Whatever.

Dave closes the door, but doesn’t leave. You have no idea what Sollux thinks of it, nor do you care. Well, not much. After over three months of traveling, nudity -your own or theirs- fazes you exactly jack fucking shit. Does he seriously think you’d take turns getting dressed inside the tent when it’s raining outside? 

After your hair dries you look like an electrocuted dandelion, effortlessly outranking Mituna in the poofy-headed asshole league. At least you feel clean. You try not to feel grossed out that you can honestly tell the difference between now and twenty minutes ago.

Being clean is an epiphany. Now that you’re not marinating in your own body excretions you can finally concentrate on how sore, tired and hungry you are. Ah, the small joys in life. Fucking fantastic, right?

Back in the guest room you find John and Dave sorting through the contents of your packs, taking stock of what’s left and what needs to be replaced. They look up when you sidle through the door.

“Hey,” John smiles at you. It strains bittersweet around the edges.

If Sollux wasn’t such a dickbag you’d kiss him for extending hospitality, you need the reprieve and you need to properly regroup. You need to fix this, and while your mind is full of possibilities, they’re all tangled up like a basket full of colourful stings besieged by Skitty. It’s just been too fucking much, that last week was more than you can take.

“You guys hungry?” you offer.

John’s stomach give a ravenous roar of approval. He covers his belly sheepishly.

“I’ll take that as a yes. There’s a café downtown,” you say. “My treat.”

*

The epic smack down you delivered to asshole Ace Trainer’s posterior fattened your wallet really fucking nicely indeed. Originally you’d meant for this to be a victory feast, but. Well. Comfort food works fucking fine, too.

It’s obvious the staff would _love_ to refuse you, but they can’t seem to find a goddamn reason before the three of you have already commandeered a table outside. It might have something to do with Caledfwlch hovering behind Dave’s shoulders, blades intersecting like a hugeass, unsubtle-as-hell X of dire warning. That, and you have Malik trotting at your heels, mister harbinger of fluffy white doom.

Although he loses badass points for carrying Liv on his back. So many badass points. The two of them have been awfully buddy-buddy lately. Well, Malik did collapse in battle to avenge her, so there’s that.

John drops so heavily into the chair it travels with an ear-wrenching scrape across the brick. “I could eat a Milktank.”

“Pretty sure that when faced with those gracefully undulating teats you’ll be singing a whole other tune, bro,” Dave points out. “The tune of _please please oh god no I’m sorry, I’m sorry sweet baby Mew please no_. That being said, fantastic idea. I’ll have a steak-“ he stops himself “-uh if that is okay with your wallet, Krabkrab?” 

“I will backhand you into those tulips if you call me Krabkrab again, Dave, and yeah, sure. Go wild.” 

“Sweet, thanks babe.”

“My fist. Your face. Tulips,” you growl at him. “You have been warned.”

“I feel so appreciated,” Dave sighs.

When the reluctant waiter comes to take your order you decide to fuck it, you’re skipping straight to dessert. Two desserts. You’re an adult (almost, mostly, well kinda) so you can do whatever the hell you want. This is an absolutely magnificent idea up until you’re halfway through the pancakes and discover your stomach has apparently shrunk to the size of a whiny walnut; the result of eating freeze-dried food for three months. You have to stop or risk becoming nauseous.

At least you don’t have to choke down the bitter disappointment about wasting it, because after he finishes his own and Dave’s leftovers, John pulls your plate closer and tucks in. Asshole must have a transdimensional portal lodged in his throat. Food goes in, moronic blither comes out.

Dave’s pale and wan looking, his pretty freckles standing out like sepia ink blots against his skin. John’s quiet, methodically devouring the food. You stare ahead sightlessly, fingers swirling through Malik’s fur. This was supposed to be a victory meal. You’d expected… laughter. Smiles. It was supposed to be everything that winning their eight badge wasn’t, when you and John were fighting, when there was no money, when it was so cold your bones hurt. Sure, you’d have been sad and worried with the journey being over, but you’d have been glad, too.

This is not the end and you know it. But you’re going to have to offer them something better than an improved training schedule, type weaknesses overhaul and alternate moves. It’d be like throwing a text book at their heads and hope the impact knocks some sense into them. Extremely unlikely to have any results. They need a more defined goal than that, something they will gain visceral satisfaction from. Staying here is not the answer and aimlessly wandering would be fucking dumb, not to mention a goddamn waste of resources.

You told them you believe they could do it, but then they lost, and _now_ you have to show them why you’ve never doubted them, never did and never will. They look towards you for that, but you’re just so… fucking… tired.

John bumps his knee into yours, once, twice. “Thanks for the food.”

“No pro-“

Dave’s PokéApp cuts you off with an incoming holo call. Neither you or John miss how he takes one look at the sender and goes _white_. He stuffs the device out of sight with undue haste.

Silence.

Dave exhales, makes a visible effort to relax back into his coolkid persona. Emotions? What emotions? “It’s from Dirk,” he mumbles, nudging his shades further up his nose.

Fuck. _Fuck_! His bro. Your throat feels tight and useless. 

“So pick it up!” John urges, and it’s your turn to knock knees with him. Hard.

“Yeah, cause I’m so looking forward to telling him all about the shit that went down,” he says. “Or didn’t. More like plopped into the dirt, got cold and congealed a little.”

“He’s your _brother_.”

“Look, bro, I know you and your dad are close, but this is different, okay? We Striders don’t air out our manfeels like it’s dirty laundry the way you do. They’re just fine being damp and a little musty, just spritz some Febreze and you’re good as new.”

Dave is being an obtuse pustule, but you suspect John might really not understand. His bond with his family is profoundly different from yours or Dave’s. The morning after the League he called his dad, and they talked for over an hour. Felt like there might no end to his tears, leaving you restless and prickly the whole time (you hate it when he cries, it fucking destroys you). John’s still sad, but his load to bear seems easier than Dave’s, lighter. With Dave there’s guilt, maybe even shame.

“Fine,” John huffs, twirling a hand through the air with sarcastic flair. “Then _don’t_ tell him, continue ignoring both of them until they get worried. It’s not like they aren’t complete weirdos and won’t totally track us down and kidnap us or anything.”

“Fine,” Dave bites back. “I will. Won’t. Not tell them, that is.”

Look at these complete fucksticks, holy shit, you can’t believe it. You’ve seen Psyduck hold more literate debates. 

“ _Fine_!” John counters, crossing his arms and sticking his nose up in the air _you can’t fucking take this shit anymore_.

“What the raging fuck do I have to do so you two disordered shit rinsers will stop yakking like two Chatot with anger issues,” you bang your fist into the table. “John, shut up. Dave—“

Again a holo jingle. John’s this time.

“I wonder who that is?” John singsongs.

Dave goes tense. “John, don’t you dare.”

“Oh, it’s Dirk.” 

“John, I fucking swear.”

“What a surprise.”

“Karkat, tell John not to pick up that holo.” Hah! Good one, like he listens to you. Just hilarious. John, of course, showily twirls his PokéApp between his fingers. Dave stabs a warning finger at him. “No!”

John raises a brow.

Dave actually bares his teeth. “ _John_ , no-“

John picks up. “Hi Dirk!”

Dave bonks his head into the table forcefully enough the plates give a disturbed rattle.

With no small amount of curious interest you observe the holo materialising at eye-hight. And hey, _wow_. Talk about family resemblance. They could be twins if Dirk wasn’t clearly older. Dave’s hair is more baby-pastel blond, while his brother’s is styled more elaborately and Dirk’s nose appears slightly crooked. Other than that? Could be two sides of the same coin.

Shit, the asshole even wears shades the way Dave does. Pointy ones. What a dork.

“Sup,” Dirk says, in a low, scratchy voice. “How’re you doing there, John? You got some sauce on your chin, bro.” John scrubs the back of his wrist across his face. There’s nothing there. Definitely family. “Is my dear sweet precious baby brother there?”

Dave sighs theatrically and wrenches the PokéApp out of John’s hand. “What d’you want?”

“I missed you, too, Dave,” Dirk answers. “No, don’t cry, my darling. We’ll meet again soon.” He touches the back of his wrist to his forehead and pantomimes swooning. Not a muscle in his face gives.

“I doubt that,” Dave grits out. Caledfwlch is nearly plastered to the back of his head in an effort to get closer to Dirk’s holo. She keeps humming at him, it’s cute as fuck, but if she angles her right blade just a shade more steeply she’s going to decapitate Dave. You pluck at a tassel until she backs off.

“No, seriously. You should hike your scrawny ass over to Ambrette posthaste.” 

“Give me one good reason, bro. One that does not involve copious amount of plush ass and slash or herds of majestically galloping Ponyta. No more Ponyta Dirk, I fucking swear.”

Dirk holds up a finger until Dave shuts up. Then says: “Fossil Pokémon.”

You sit up straighter.

“I was commissioned to assist the palaeontology department in developing a program to reverse the effects of the diagenetic processes which-“

“Okay that’s nice,” Dave interrupts him. “Good for you, here’s a cookie.”

Your round on him. “Could you just… _not_ , for a single fucking second?” you scoot into him so both of you have a buttcheek on the chair each. “Are you saying what I think you are saying?” you ask Dirk.

“Depends on what you think I am saying. Karkat, Right?”

“Yeah, hi. So. You’re saying you can bring them back?”

“Aren’t fossil Pokémon like… dead rocks?” John asks, brows pinched together in confusion.

Dirk gives him a flat look from over the top of his shades.

“I know there’s more to it than that, dude, but does that mean you can bring back dead people, too?”

“Whoa, back it up cowboy, no, no can do. When we die it’s game over so don’t go do anything reckless. No, it seems that the energy which resides in Pokémon sometimes lingers on in certain well preserved bone fragments, and not just in any of them. So here’s the deal, there’s this cave” -John groans- “where you might find these relics, so you could swing by and check it out, we’d probably have it up and running by the time you get here.”

“Why don’t you just send English to do it,” Dave complains. “He likes caves.”

“If Jake finds a relic and we can bring it back you can bet your lily white ass he’s going to want to keep it. You want one, you get it yourself,” Dirk shoots back.

“Not interested,” Dave says, and that’s the biggest fucking lie ever. He has the biggest, creepiest boner for dead things. He’s just being a whiny pissbaby.

“Yeah, well, I am,” you point out. “Interested.”

“Alright, cool, it’s a date. I’ll be waiting for you in Cyllage. See you in a few weeks.” With that, the holo gives a static _zing!_ and collapses into itself.

“Okay then. Bye?” John says with sarcastic cheer, waving at nothing in mid-air. “At least he didn’t ask about the League,” he adds, side-eying Dave.

Who pushes his shades into his hair and rubs both palms across his face. He’s hunching, crumpled in on himself. “He knows. That’s why he didn’t… he knows.”

After that he withdraws into himself. You are more than willing to give him space if he needs it, but you can’t help but worry. The last you hear him is when you’re settling down for bed.

Dave’s lovingly wedging the eggs safely into a corner, smooches them each in turn, picks up Honchkrow and parks him on top of Casey. Effectively tucking her in with feathery rump. John’s Skylark he plants on Slimer with a firm: “This is where you fucking roost, okay? Not on my face, not on my butt, not anywhere but here. On the egg. You’re a bird, that’s an egg. You sit on it, capiche?”

Skylark chirps, tips her head sideways. A blink blink of beady black eyes up at him.

“I’m going to take that as an affermative,” Dave mutters and wriggles under his sheets.

You won at rock-paper-scissors for the bed, so you crawl into it with a certain amount of glee.

“This is great,” you announce to the room at large.

“Goodnight, Karkat,” John says from the floor, pointedly.

“A bed.”

“Bye Karkat, we’re going to sleep now.”

“With a nice cushy mattress and freshly laundered sheets.”

“I’m closing my eyes now.”

Whatever, they each have an inflatable mattress and clean sheets, too. They’ll fucking live. Still not a bed. You burrow deeper, delighting in the slide of the cotton on the bare skin of your calves, your arms. Malik is at your feet, so you can’t close your legs. You luxuriously sprawl instead, working your body into gentle give of the surface and sighing.

You can hear muted music; Sollux’ computer, Latula has a better taste. Tomorrow there will be time to catch up with them. Now there’s only the heavy press of exhaustion, the permeating grogginess of suddenly being clean and fed. You don’t think you could get up again even if your life depended on it.

Minutes pass, the room is dark. 

You shift your weight, blink at the ceiling. Nudge Malik with your toe until he makes a fluting noise in acknowledgement. Mentally compose a list in your head of everything that needs replacing.

New tent. New clothes. Restock on medical supplies. Food for the Pokémon. Food for you. John needs new boots. See which TMs they have in the Pokémart here. Rope. Repel. Poké Balls.

You shift again, tug at the sheets. It’s downright chilly. You address the darkened room in a harsh whisper: “Is it just me or is it drafty in here?” 

Soft groan. “It’s just you, Karkat,” John answers irritably. Dave’s silent, passed out the instant his head hit the pillow.

“Right.” You frown, haul the fabric up to your chin and huddle your limbs close to preserve warmth.

The bed is weird. So pliable and accommodating you feel like you’re going sink straight through it. You feel stifled, disconnected without the hard soil barely two finger’s width underneath you. The room banishes all sound: no wind, no rustling grass, no prowling night creatures. No wordless chiming of the stars in the sky.

Your exhaustion sits like a rock on your chest; you’re trapped.

You lurch upright, wind sharp fingers through your hair to ground yourself. It’s too cold, but you’re sweating, so you lie down again. Your squirming chases off Malik, who leaps to the ground like a silent shadow to bunk on the floor. Instantly you miss his warmth, his living presence. Take a moment to appreciate the pathetic sack of waste that you are, because you’re genuinely stung that he left.

Minutes turn into half an hour, an hour, and longer.

The absolutely worst thing about the situation is that you’re so tired, so utterly and finally _finished_ that you’re on the verge of tears because you _just want to sleep, damn it_.

John sighs loudly, making the exhalation of breath a statement in and on itself. _Geez Karkat_.

Cold air rushes under the sheets as he lifts them and you nearly fucking jump out of your skin. John slides in next to you, throwing a heavy arm over your chest and a long leg over your thighs to pin you down. “Stop squirming, it’s driving me _nuts_ ,” he grumbles, notching his chin into the junction of your shoulder.

“Well, excuse me,” you bite back.

“Shoosh,” he murmurs against your shoulder, and the patch of skin that he’s breathing out against breaks out in goosebumps. “Only sleep now.” And just like that, you feel him slide into unconsciousness.

You swallow down an inexplicable lump in your throat. Already you feel warmer with him draped against you, and he smells strange and familiar all at once. Hair tickles the curve of your ear and you feel the steady rise and fall of his chest, the minute twitch in his fingers as his dreams pester him, the thrum of being alive shivering under his skin. John… always has been tactile, but this. You know it’s different, somehow, but it is so very difficult to give enough of a shit to try and pinpoint the niggling why when the closeness feels so good. 

Fuck.

Whatever.

You shift so you can turn your body towards him. John doesn’t wake, instinctively his leg slides between yours and he pulls closer to comfort himself in the hollow at the base of your throat.

Sleep comes easy after that.

*

In the morning Dave’s in bed with you both, wedged against John’s back. His added bulk has you shoved face-first into the wall even as your arm is pulled back at a painful angle because someone is lying on it.

Time to get up.

On the floor you find yesterday’s jeans and pull them on to wander in your sleep-rumpled shirt through the Captor house. The corridors are silent and gray with dawn light, and every single one of them seem superimposed with cobwebs of memories. You played here for hours, even days, and pretended Sollux and you were brothers because your own had already left for Unova. In the kitchen you find Sollux, bend over a thermos of coffee and looking like dead warmed over. He’s scrawny and thin enough his vertebra strain through his t-shirt. Malik is sitting next to him with his head propped on a thigh. Ah, so that’s where he went.

“Morning,” you grunt.

Sollux grunts back.

You take the chair next to him and grab the pot of coffee, choose a mug out of the mismatching assortment clustered in the middle of the table. You have your field journal with you, a dog-eared pocket sized notebook in which you take notes. Some of the pages are furious gray blocks of text, but others boast small drawings in the margins, diagrams of teeth and feathers and claws, or a crude representation of the markings on Casey and Slimer. The very last pages are a soupy scrawl of random notes and lists. That’s where you note down _Fossil Pokémon_ in your strained uppercase script, might be a good idea to search the net for additional information.

“So,” Sollux says, setting down his own mug with flourish and smirking at you.

Wary, you frown at him. “So?”

“Both of them.”

“Both of them what?”

“Come on, KK, I saw the three of you all cozy and snuggled up like—“

“Oh, for fuck’s sake! What is this, kindergarten?” you yell, snapping both your hands into the air with so much force you accidentally launch your pen through the kitchen. Malik, loyal that he is, trots off to fetch it. “We’re not. Shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything, man.”

“Don’t you play Gotcha! with me, you underdeveloped cucumber,” you massage the heels of your hands into your eye sockets, to try and stave off the headache. “They’re my friends, we’ve been in each other’s space twenty-four fucking seven for three months, okay?”

“Okay,” Sollux hums agreeably, too easy, and you just want to smack his dumb smug face. “ _So_ ,” he goes again and your jaw clenches with rage. The saliva spraying ignominy, urgh, you don’t even know why you’re friends with this douchebag. But then he follows it up with a much more serious “Both of them lost.”

“Yeah,” you bite out, deflating under the familiar cold tide of _guilt_ , that familiar old pal of yours. You didn’t want it to fucking end, did you? And now here you are, you got exactly what you fucking wanted.

Sollux takes a long, thoughtful sip of his coffee. He drinks it black, like you do. “It’s the Elite Four, KK,” he points out. “If any random asshole with a Pokémon could have a shot we’d have a new Champion every other day.”

“I know,” you tell him, slowly turning the mug between your palms. 

“So they’re going to try again,” he says. It’s not a question.

Nodding, you go for another refill. Holiest of shits, you’ve missed coffee. You nearly burn the roof of your mouth taking a swallow. “I can’t just assign them some drills and quiz them on battle dynamics, it’s going to take more to patch up the huge hideous hole in their confidence,” you tell him. “I don’t fucking know what to do, man.”

“Ah,” Sollux seems… let down? “So you’re not staying here?”

“There’s three of us,” you point out.

“So what? My dad’s happy to have you here, you know that.”

It’s… tempting. Route 22 flows right up to Victory Road. Lumiose isn’t all that far away. You have everything here you could possibly want; food, shelter, friends. All the time you could need to train them and yet return to comfort in the evenings. It’d be easy to try the League again, shit, you could give it a shot a whenever you wanted.

…no.

One day, sure, you’ll be tickled pink like a Clefairy to have a place to come _home_ to. But that’s not now, and not here. You never expected to love traveling so much, even though it often fucking sucks. When it rains or snows, when the heat becomes so unbearable you break out in a rash from sweating. No showers. No coffee. No soft, fresh blankets. 

Just the road stretching on into the distance and the ache in your muscles at the end of the day. Heh. Yeah, okay, you already know the answer.

“Thanks, but no thanks,” you say sincerely. “We’ll be moving on. Dave got a call from his brother yesterday, so I guess we’re heading to Cyllage.”

Sollux nods, not happy with the answer but accepting it all the same. He twists in his chair towards you. “I have an idea.”

“Shit, hold the press,” you say.

He kicks out at you, but can’t stop a grin from flickering around his lips. “So I dated this girl a while back.”

“Poor girl.”

“Fucking shut up, KK!” he snarls, kicking at your legs again. 

Malik, apparently conflicted whether to stand up for you against his previous owner, mews anxiously. “It’s okay, Malik, good boy,” you tell him, rubbing your fingers along the top of his head reassuringly.

Sollux tries again. “Keep your trap shut, okay? I was going to say, I dated this chick - _shut up!_ \- and guess what?”

It’s no small feat to bite back all the suggestions why it’s dated in past tense. You’re trying like a fucking champion here, but the temptation is dangling right in front of you and you’ve missed ribbing him. “You’re making this awfully fucking easy, Captor,” you point out.

He scoffs. “Yeah, I can fucking see you smirking over there like a delighted five year old with a thumb up their ass. Suck it up, the point is that her name is Feferi Peixes—“ he pauses for effect “—and she’s an ex-champion.”

The grin falls off your face like you’re an etch-a-sketch and he gave you a good rattle. “Wait. Are you fucking with me now?”

“Never after only one date, KK,” he leers at you, groping your knee with sharp fingers. “Buy me a drink first.”

You smack his hand away, half-distracted with all the possibilities spreading through your mind like a drop of ink on wet paper. “So this girl-“ you begin.

“Yes,” Sollux answers, admiring his ragged, half-chewed nails with an air of smug satisfaction as though it was his own damn feat.

“-was ex-champion.”

“Yes.”

“Mother of fuck,” you curse with feeling.

“Yes. Well no, but.”

“Damn.”

“So, how’s this for a plan,” he leans towards you, all focused intent and spidery hands palm up as though offering you the idea. “You should track her down, and challenge her to battle. She’s an ex-champion, held the spot for over two years. If they can beat her…” he trails off so you can fill in the blanks.

You push out a breath through your nostrils, not quite a snort. “That’s. Pretty clever and helpful of you,” you allow, side-eyeing him with suspicion. “Who are you and what did you do to Sollu— _stop hitting me_! No, it’s okay, Malik -stop it you lisping eyesore.”

He backs off after one last punch to your ribs, then rests his hand next to yours on Malik’s back. “You might be interested to know her cousin Meenah was champion before her.”

“A Peixes for each.”

Sollux grins at you, fever bright. “ _Now_ you’re getting the picture. Even better? Last I heard Feferi was Shalour City, which is not _that_ far after you’re done in Ambrette.”

Hunt down ex-champions and confront them. It’s… a pretty brilliant fucking plan.

“Seems like we need to brush up on our stalking skills,” you say thoughtfully.

Sollux makes a face at you. “Way to make it sound awkward.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those interested in more Pokéstuck verse tidbits and randomness (such as how Dave acquired Caledfwlch, or who does the chores) feel free to visit my [Pokéstuck tag](http://everlind.tumblr.com/tagged/pok%C3%A9stuck) on my tumblr. Likewise, if you have questions of your own always feel free to ask them (IC asks are also welcome).


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Detailed info on the boys' teams: [Karkat](http://everlind.tumblr.com/post/87516195308), [John](http://everlind.tumblr.com/post/95754863263), [Dave](http://everlind.tumblr.com/post/79800294622).  
> Trainer sprites for the boys by [Pi](http://thepioden.tumblr.com/)!  
> Karkat's Egg Sprites by [Asuka](http://asukaskerian.tumblr.com/)!  
> 

See, the thing is that you love the eggs; the consciousness thrumming under your palm, the swirl of color across the shell; you love knowing that they need you, that without you they’d go cold and lifeless. When you lay your cheek against them you can feel a wordless feedback from inside and that protective feeling will unfurl and stretch within the confines of your body, breathless and urgent.

But why do the damn things need to be _so fucking heavy_?!

It’s absolute crap is what it is. 

No joke, you’re going to be so damn relieved when they finally hatch. You’ve been lugging them around since Route 20, surely it’s going to be soon. Right? Right. 

Shit, you hope Kanaya knows what to do. 

(what if they don’t hatch? what if you somehow fucked up? what did you do wrong? you didn’t drop them, you’ve been so _careful_ )

As it is you’re damn relieved to take a break. Part of you wants to push on until you hit Route 7 -Kanaya lives nearby the daycare so it can’t be all that difficult to find- but your aching shoulders are screaming loudly enough. After gently lowering the eggs and tucking the sling around them so they won’t tip over you plop down on your ass with a grunt. 

One thing Route 7 has going for it is nature. You’ve seen a lot of remarkable sights, from blinding bright snow to the austere dynamic of Victory Road, but Route 7 is simply, genuinely pretty. Spring green, with sunlight dancing in winking sequins of light at your feet and trees offering fragrant patches of shade to rest in. Earlier you came across berries, gleaming and tart, and the three of you ate handfuls of them.

You’ve settled down at a fork in the road, sitting in the thick soft grass growing freely at the edge of the sandy path.

“That’s where I caught Caledfwlch,” Dave says, motioning towards a broad, tree-flanked lane branching sharply towards the right.

“Something else there besides ghost swords?” you ask, fishing out your PokéApp to calibrate your position. You lift the device above your head for a better signal.

“I think the Parfum Palace is at the end of the road. It’s this tourist spot,” Dave tells you, “a renaissancey castle ruled by Froufrou.”

“Sounds exactly like our kinda place,” John adds, his next breath a groan as he eases the hefty travel pack down his shoulders. Wanders over to you. “Let me look at your back.”

Carefully he helps you peel your shirt up, you pull it over your head and sit with the wad cradled against your chest, arms still through the sleeves. There’s fingers at your nape, your ribs, but he avoids the upper half of your back. “How bad is it?” you ask.

“It’s…” John trails off. “I’ll just get the salve.”

You grope around until your fingers trail along the soreness and, oh shit, _yuck_ , it feels slightly gooey, the sores oozing a tacky layer of discharge. 

“How far is Kanaya’s again?” John asks for what must by the fuckzillionth time (you know the stereotype of the happy family crammed in a car with a brat in the back, which keeps bleating ‘ _are we there yet_ ’? Yeah? That’s John, all the fucking time).

Fumbling your PokéApp level with your face, you squint at it. “We’re supposed to cross a bridge in a little while and then we should be there.” 

“Okay, I’ll take the eggs then,” John offers, and you hurt too much to protest. Feels like you’ve been flayed and it burns when John massages the salve in, even though he’s being as careful as he can.

You bite back a hiss, peer at Dave through one slitted eye. He’s gazing towards the broad lane, lost in thought. “Speaking of ghost swords,” you begin, drawing his attention, “you need to take better care of Caledfwlch’s blade. She’s still a sword, a magically possessed and living sword through the means of some metaphysical bullshit that hurts my brain to think about, but a sword nonetheless and if you keep being such a pointless waste of air she’ll fucking rust, okay?”  

Dave’s right brow rises above his shades. “You telling me to polish my sword?”

Behind you, John goes _snrk!_

“Well, yeah,” you answer, frowning in confusion. “What, did you think I was going to do it for you?”

The left brow joins the right. “Not even if I ask nicely?” 

John is sniggering so hard he _fwumphs_ into the grass behind you, cradling his belly to contain his hilarity.

“I… I suppose if you took over some of my chores I wouldn’t mind… _what the fuck is so funny_?!”

“Oh man, oh man,” John gasps between bursts of laughter. “Dave, I think I need to go and catch a Doublade, too.”

Dave snorts out a soft noise of amusement. “Jealous bro? Want Karkat to polish your sword, too?”

There’s a beat, and then John sits up. “Hey now! I just meant like… it’s just a _joke_ , okay?”

“ _Sure_.”

“You started it!”

“Yeah, and you always need to finish it.”

“Come on, it was a joke! You’re being stupid.”

“Bro, you’re like the lord of stupid. You know I don’t sleep well cause I’m worried you’ll get kidnapped by a bunch of Slowpoke in the dark of the night. Buggers took one look at you and went: it’s him, we have found the chosen one, and they made you a nice shiny sceptre and want to crown you king of stupidville, population: you.”

“I AM NOT POLISHING ANYONE’S SWORD!” you interrupt them with a roar, before whirling and stabbing a finger at John. “And you’re not adding any new Pokémon to your roster until you manage to evolve Skylark _and_ teach her Fly!”

There’s a beat where John and Dave exchange a look, like they’re checking with one another whether to let you in on some private joke. Seems like they decide against it because the next fucking thing out of Egbert’s mouth is: “Technically she already can, you know. Fly.”

You take a deep, calming breath. Count to ten. Sun is shining. The Fletchling are cheeping. Really, it is too much fucking trouble to rip off the shrieking pustule attached to John’s neck and shit down his throat. That would require strenuous bowel movements. Makes you tired just thinking about it. 

“Hand me my notebook,” you hiss out from between gritted teeth.

“Oh no,” John groans, “anything but the notebook.” 

You narrow your eyes at him. John groans and wriggles on his belly towards your backpack, dragging himself forwards with handfuls of grass. Dave is not wrong about the Slowpoke. It’s a legit concern.  

He hands you the notebook. “I’ve thought this through,” you say.

“We know, Karkat,” John mumbles, rolling onto his back and appearing martyred. “You told us. Several times. With complicated words and hazardous hand movements.”

“There are reasons why this is priority.”

“I remember the flowcharts, man. By Arceus, do I remember the flowcharts. They haunt my waking dreams.”

“Good reasons!”

“They were color-coded,” John says, voice bleak and worn, like he saw hell and lived to tell the tale, yet forever wishing he’d just taken a swandive into the eternal flames.

You begin turning well-worn pages. “Because the underdeveloped magost berry rattling around in your empty head is incapable of…” you stop.

John twitches, eyes you sideways, expression cautiously hopeful he’s being let off the hook. He’s taking great care to seem as unassuming as possible so you might forget he’s there.

You clear your throat. “Dave,” you say.

“Karkat,” Dave returns.

“Did… did you…” a muscle near your eye jumps. “Did you draw dicks all over my moveset grids?”

The asshole doesn’t even have the decency to shit himself in fright. 

John slowly levers himself upright, looking entirely too gleeful with a sly grin curling the corners of his mouth, an imminent warning of something terrible. He sticks his nose over the edge of the page. He’s about to say something awful, you just fucking know it.

“Looks like a dick move to me,” he pipes up

You nearly break your PokéApp over his head.

*

“Karkat.”

“I would rather fist open my own anus than talk to you.”

“Are you serious? Bro, why are you even blaming me? You can never be sure who did the dicks. It could’ve been me. Could’ve been John. Could’ve been _you_. Straight up penis ouija up in here.” 

“You know what, Dave? I fucking hope you contract some malignant crotchrot. I hope karma bestows upon your loins weeping sores and loss of bladder control. And, if truly the gods are benevolent, your cock will just fall off. You can use it as a keychain, a memento of your days as a testosterone driven failure dumpster containing a broiling Freudian vortex drooling phallic imagery and homoerotic tendencies all over the place.”

As if the whole situation isn’t bad enough John keeps muffling laughter into his hand like some grade school kid writing ‘weenie’ in the margin of his textbook in class.

“Alright that tickles me pink and gives me fuzzy feelings and all, and I love you, too, but we kind of have a problem here,” Dave says.

“You mean besides you having been born?” you snarl at him.

“Yeah actually.”

…ngghhh. “ _WHAT_?”

Dave tilts his head sideways, jerks it towards the bridge. Liv, straddling his shoulders at the nape of his neck, mimics the movement with her ears. “That.”

“I fucking swear, Strider, if this is another of your—your… oh. Well shit.”

“My point exactly.”

John takes off his glasses and smears the smudges into a nice blur across the whole lens before shoving them back onto his face to try again. “Is that a Snorlax?” he asks after a moment.

“No, John, that is a motherfucking Ponyta farting rainbows all over the place.”

“Uhm.”

You level a flat look at him which you hope conveys, _and here I naively hoped you had more available braincells than that_ , before taking a deep breath. “Yes, you barely sentient blight upon the world, that is a Snorlax.”

“That’s inconvenient,” John says, because he’s the self-appointed master of all things that are obvious. “Now what?”

You stick a hand into your curls and card a little, eyes narrowing. “I’ve read that you can wake it with a Poké Flute.”

Dave sighs. “Raise your hands if you got none.” He raises his hand. After a moment John joins in.

“Me neither,” you admit. “I suppose we’ll just have to head back to Camphrier Town and see if we can get one there. After all, if Snorlax are relatively native to the area they must have one of those on hand for situations like these.”

John is incredulous. “But that’s a three hour walk!” he protests, and you don’t miss the way he’s hollowing his back like he’s pregnant to brace the considerable weight of the eggs cradled against his belly.

“See? If you had listened and heeded the charts, Skylark would have been an Altaria by now with Fly. You could’ve just _flown_ there,” you tell him with no small amount of smug gratification.

“He told you about the charts, bro,” Dave mumbles.

John is about to roll his eyes. You raise a brow. He aborts the movement and goes a little crosseyed instead. “We can try to fight it?” he suggests after a minute.

The only right answer to that is a slap to the back of his head. “Did you accidentally expel your heart while you sneezed? The poor fat fuck is asleep and you’re going to unleash your crazed fluffy asshole brigade on it?”

“Just a little!” John splutters. “So it wakes up and lumbers on?”

“ _No_!” you tell him, firmly. “Next time you’re asleep I’ll have Malik set you on fire, see how you like it.”

“Alright, alright! Sheesh, Krabbykat! It was just a suggestion.”

“Guys,” Dave interrupts softly, brows rumpled as though he’s experiencing some very rare but intense cranial activity. “A Poké Flute is to play music on, correct?”

“What else would you do with a flute? NO! Don’t answer that, damn it. Just… ugh, yeah. You play a tune which will gently wake it up, that’s the idea.”

“Ladies and gentlemen, the answer to your problem is here. Karkat, hold my Buneary.”

Not giving you the time to decline he dumps Liv into you arms, who instantly grips the front of your shirt and burrows against your chest with a happy croon. Lopes up towards the Snorlax, while you attempt to keep the overly affectionate ball of bunny from strangling you. 

“He’s about to do something really dumb,” John says idly.

You shift Liv’s weight and watch, worried. “When isn’t he?” you agree.

“Yo, Snorlax, my man. Seriously, what’s the plan?” Dave calls out.

“Oh no,” John breathes.

“Damn, I mean, look at chu just lying around, fucking huge and musclebound, like you think we’re just gonna go around?”

“Oh my god, don’t rap,” you plead.

“Rude yanno, this is just one popsicle stand you’re gonna gave to blow, bro, cause people got places they need to go—“

On the bridge, Snorlax cringes. You cringe right along with it. John’s got both hands covering his face in abject despair. 

“Dave,” you try.

“—so why don’t you jus’ up and get outta our faces—“

Snorlax cracks open an eye. A text book example of ‘foul mood’ settles on its face and you can’t even blame it, shit, you’d probably claw off your own ears if you were woken up by that. Then again you weigh about a hundred fifty pounds dripping wet, and Snorlax weighs more than seven times that. “Dave, stop!” you’re actually yelling now.

Seeing the impending disaster unfold, John’s wordlessly reaching to take Liv from you. Burdened by the eggs as he is, he’s out for the count. You begin running, heart cold with fear.

“—all up and quick cause we’re legit Pokémon aces—“ 

And that’s when Snorlax lumbers upright like a fucking leviathan rising from the unfathomable depths, a guttural roar of displeasure vibrating its thorax. The sun is blotted out and all living things cower in silence.

You’re all so fucking dead.

Dave’s just _standing_ there, like he believes he’s got this under control, like a scrawny toothbrush such as him has any sort of leverage over a six feet plus, thousand pound Pokémon. Little does he know that he’s a minute away from being sat on, leaving the remarkable legacy of needing to be scraped out of a blue asscrack before he could be burned in peace. You grab the collar of his shirt and wrench him behind you—he stumbles, you think you hear him go down, fuck, you make yourself as tall and broad as you can to hide him behind you.

“Hey,” you say, lifting your voice without actually shouting. “Hey, hey big guy. Hey, now, shoosh, I know that was bad, you have every right to be angry—“

The Snorlax takes one step towards you and your heart turns itself into a quivering knot of fear because you can feel the tremor of it travel the through the earth towards you, rattle at the bones in your legs.

You so desperately want to look behind you, see where Dave is, where John is, so you know they’re safe at least, you hope John isn’t about to do something reckless, or Dave something uselessly brave, that they’ll stay put and trust you, that you got this, oh please, you hope that you got this, you really do, because the Pokémon is huge and your head would fit in its maw so easy, so nice, it’d barely have to chew. Never before have you been so aware of your weak, feeble human body, it’d barely have to slap you, or not even that, it could just draw upon that well of power within it to burn you to cinder or bury you deep in the ground until merciless rocks crush your life from you.

Sometimes you forget what kind of creatures you’re dealing with here, even you. Earth movers. Sky shakers. Fire eaters. Some rend space and time as they see fit, slide from one dimension into the other and lurk in your darkest of nightmares.

Such arrogance, simply because you can trick them and trap them into small spherical prisons. You think people have tried, here, with this Snorlax. Have tried to catch it, and didn’t. You wondered what happened to them.

“Shh,” you say, and every so slowly, so very fucking slowly, lift a hand. It’s steady, not a single shake in your fingers. Be humble, but be unmoving.

It still advances, inexorable, perfectly aware of your insignificance, how easy it would be to just walk over you.

And then the tips of your fingers brush against it’s lower belly - _push_ … and then it stays. The fur is soft, extremely sleek, closely packed together and gleaming. You can feel it breathe.

It’s so easy to fit the whole of your palm down over the vast curve and just keep it there. “That’s it,” you murmur softly. “See, that’s better, right?” Blindly you search your pockets— tension rips through the Snorlax instantly, and you croon softly: “Just looking for a snack. Not that fucking dumb I think I can catch you, ah, see?” You hold out your hand, lifting it as high above your head as you can.

There’s nothing in that moment but for the breeze on you skin and the sun spilling around the edges of Snorlax’ vast outline, the fast, exhilarated thrum of your blood. Gently, daintily even, Snorlax moves one giant paw and picks the Poké Puff from between your fingers with two of its claws. You get a small thrill at the sight of its opposable digits, how cleverly it moves them to pinch the confectionary tightly before bringing it up to its face to snuffle at it.

It sits down.

Just like that, a massive _BOOOOOOM_ that makes the sand under the soles of your boots heave hard enough to kick you into the air and nearly throw you off balance.

Gulp.

There goes the Poké Puff. It doesn’t even chew. Well damn.

It makes a low rolling hum at you. “Dave?” you call out.

“Yes?” He’s still right behind you and his voice is wonderfully breathless with tension.

“Get my pack.”

It eats all of your Poké Puffs and slobbers all over your hands after to catch every single last crumb. Utterly docile, it pats you down with big rough paws to search for more. Content it’s been given all you had to offer, it simply sits there, slightly drowsy but apparently as curious about you as you are about it.

“I don’t understand what’s going on,” Dave says. “Karkat, how the fuck—“ 

The sound of Dave’s voice makes the Snorlax rumble anxiously. Its upper lip twitches, flashing one of its hooked fangs.

Without taking your eyes away, you pap blindly behind you -flapping fingers across Dave’s face until he splutters. “Shush the motherfuck up, before you upset it again. Him. Her. What are you ev— _okay_ , it’s a girl. Wow, today on things I didn’t want to fucking see.”  

“Yeah, wouldn’t want to upset lord of the lard…” you can hear Dave grumble against your index and you press down harder to muffle the rest. 

John smiling so wide it’s nearly blinding. He’s tentatively stroking fingers down the Snorlax’ arm and marvelling at the soft wave of light travelling across her fur in the wake of his hand. “Alright sensei,” he says softly. “I’ll take a look at your probably not-so-dumb grids again.”

“You’ll have to look past the dicks,” you point out, biting back the smile that’s fighting its way towards your face. You win. Mostly.

“Contemporary art,” Dave whispers.

You crank your elbow into his side for good measure. 

John’s cranes his head to the side, looking around Snorlax. The bridge is clear, you’re free to travel on. Instead you caress the knuckles of your index and ring fingers gently along the Snorlax’ flat nose, a bony ridge nearly folded away into the front of her face. The hairs are tiny, and downy beige.

“You going to catch her?” John asks. “I think you’d only have to ask.”

He has no idea how close you are to reaching for a Poké Ball. He’s right. You’d only have to ask. But you look up into her big round face, the placid wiseness in those heavily lidded eyes and… 

“No,” you sigh out. “She belongs here. I’d be just taking her with me because I _can_ , and… and that’s not a good enough reason.”

A soft shaky exhale. “Holy shit, Karkat,” John laughs, bumping shoulders with you playfully and smiling at you, slow as melting butter, one corner of his mouth curving before the other. It’s the kind of smile that reaches all the way to his blue eyes with such enthusiasm it seems to make a sparking leap towards the centre of your chest.

The skies are sleepy with twilight before you can finally wrench yourself away from the Snorlax to finally cross the thrice-damned bridge. She sits on her rump, watching you watch her as you walk on, until the distance between you both is so wide she’s lost from view.

You reach Kanaya’s before nightfall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those interested in more Pokéstuck verse tidbits and randomness (such as how Dave acquired Caledfwlch, or who does the chores) feel free to visit my [Pokéstuck tag](http://everlind.tumblr.com/tagged/pok%C3%A9stuck) on my tumblr. Likewise, if you have questions of your own always feel free to ask them (IC asks are also welcome).


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Detailed info on the boys' teams: [Karkat](http://everlind.tumblr.com/post/87516195308), [John](http://everlind.tumblr.com/post/95754863263), [Dave](http://everlind.tumblr.com/post/79800294622).  
> Trainer sprites for the boys by [Pi](http://thepioden.tumblr.com/)!  
> Karkat's Egg Sprites by [Asuka](http://asukaskerian.tumblr.com/)!  
>  **!ATTENTION!** There is a part where Dave begins singing (can't miss it), I really, really recommend you listen to the song as you read that part! [Lullaby by Dixie Chicks](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DB_OdWVDC1c)
> 
> The lovely art was provided by Eri ([sailerscrimshaw](http://sailerscrimshaw.tumblr.com/) on tumblr). Go check their blog!

The cottage sits some distance back from the road, a red brick path cleaving its way through the flowers all the way up to the front door. The thick scent of roses and tulips permeates the languid warmth lingering despite the onset of evening. It settles into your skin and the fabric of your clothes like cloying perfume. 

Kanaya’s cottage. 

You haven’t seen her in, well, quite a while. A year. 

“Am I the only one worried this is going to be one of those things where the nice lady is a witch and she’s going to tempt us with poisoned apples before sticking us into a pie? Cause I gotta say I’m not sure I could resist apples right now,” he mutters. His stomach whines plaintively, tempted by the mere idea of food.

“I’m sure you’d make a tasty pie, Dave,” John assures him, patting his arm.

Dave kicks at the ground. “Aw, shucks.”

A companionable fistbump is exchanged. There are days when you don’t understand these idiots at all. Approximately three hundred sixty five a year.

Shaking your head, you peer back at the cottage. The curtains stir gently. Movement or the wind, you can’t tell, but you wonder if she’s been keeping an eye on the road for your arrival. You should knock, obviously, instead of just standing there like creepy mouthbreathing guy incarnate, but you’re… well, not sure she’d be happy to see you. You left. You packed your shit and left, because you were jealous and frustrated and so fucking lonely you couldn’t stand it, so _obviously_ the best idea was an emo roadtrip. Basically you acted like a petulant little prick, and okay, no surprises there, but that was low even for you. She knows you’re coming, you texted. Said you were welcome, but what if you look into her eyes and know otherwise?

That’s when the door swings open. She was waiting for you.

“Karkat!” Kanaya exhales and before you know it you’re scooped into an embrace. Wow hello, boobs in your face. Holy shit she got tall, she’s tucking you under her chin with room to spare. You’re flailing a little when puts her mouth near your ear and growls: “If you ever disappear without a single word again I shall chainsaw you in half, are we quite clear?” It’s furious and hurt and a little shaky. Her mouth stays against your hairline and she’s still not letting go.

It takes you two tries before you manage a reply. “Yeah, we’re clear,” you breathe, sliding your arms around her waist and hugging her back. “I’m sorry,” you whisper into her shirt.

 

 

You are. Shit, but you really are. That was a stupid, childish thing you did, so busy feeling sorry for yourself you forgot all about the people who never left you at all. Your dad left, your brother left, Terezi left, hell, John left, but Kanaya didn’t. 

 _You_ left _her_.

“I was so worried,” she hisses, giving you a spine popping squeeze.

“I’m sorry,” you repeat, somewhat strangled.

“I’m going to kill you.”

You smother a smile. “Okay, go ahead.” You stroke the rigid line of her spine. _Sorry, I’m sorry._

She just hugs you closer. _I know, you idiot._

You’re forcibly reminded of John and Dave’s presence when the former screams “ROSE!” loud enough to pop your eardrums. There’s a rush of displaced air whooshing by your right -John- and then someone is laughing -also John- soon joined by a warm throaty chuckle. Malik trots after him at a more sedate pace, Liv seated on his back. 

“Yes hello, John, and Liv, yes, I saw you!”  someone’s saying. With John’s yell still ringing through your head you’re pretty well informed on the identity of this person. You’re guessing Rose. “Long time no see, Dave. Come give big sis Rosie some sugar,” Rose says.

“Twelve days don’t give you big sister privileges, so consider the sugar locked up in the pantry, waiting for true love’s kiss while guarded by some or other Legendary dragon Pokémon. Spoiler, Lalonde, that ain’t you,” Dave tells her.

“C’mon loser, it’s time to be the pie you were always meant to be,” John tells him.

“I didn’t sign up to be the gooey apple centre of this strudel debacle, someone forged my signature and I’m not gonna point any fingers, but it starts with a J and ends with ohn Egbert,” Dave protests, even as the sound of his voice tracks ahead, towards the door and imminent baked product fate.

There’s kissy noises, _muah muah_ , and then John and Rose snickering all over again.

“Help,” Dave says flatly.

You extract yourself out of Kanaya’s bosom long enough to peek over her shoulder. There’s a neat, pouty stamp of lips on each of Dave’s cheeks, as well as an embarrassed blush. The girl tucked between John and Dave is short and frightfully competent looking, dark skinned with starry white hair. Liv is clinging to her front, crooning in a manner usually reserved for only the choicest of ear scratches. Rose’s lipstick is a little smudged, most of it being on Dave. Seeing you look, she tips her head at you.

“So you’re Karkat,” she says, mouth curling. “I have heard all about you.” One of her brows gives the tiniest twitch upwards.

You… stare. Not sure what to think or say, or how to feel about the way she has an possessive arm around each of your boys’ middles, or what to make of how happy John seems to be there, either. Definitely having emotions about how good, how _right_ , the three of them look together, like the strangest sense of missed opportunity. Forcibly you shake that sensation off. “Yeah, likewise,” you reply, rather guarded, releasing Kanaya.

“How rude of me,” Kanaya sweeps her arm towards Rose, fingers unfurling to reach for her hand. Rose gives it to her readily, fingers weaving together intimately. “Karkat, this is Rose, my girlfriend.”

Dave whistles low between his teeth. “Daaaaaang. Score.” 

Kanaya’s girlfriend. Oh. OH. 

Oh wow you’re fucking idiot aren’t you?

Rose gives you a perfectly framed smirk from between Liv’s ears, like sharing a secret with you. You narrow your eyes in return. “Pleased to make your acquaintance,” you grunt, holding out a grubby paw in her direction.

“Delighted,” she returns, just as dry, but her eyes sparkle as she shakes your hand. Her grip is cool and firm. Well shit, you think you like her after all. You smother the upward tug at the left corner of your mouth firmly.

“Seems like you already know tweedledee and tweedledumb,” you grumble, flapping a dismissive hand at aforementioned dumbo duo. For Kanaya’s benefit you add: “They followed me home. It was awful. Make it stop.”

“Hey now,” John protests mildly, shifting his weight. He’s still got the eggs, whole body tilted backwards to counterbalance their weight. No doubt he’s exhausted from carrying them most of the day. You can fucking sympathise, your shirt is still sticking into the gooey lacerations on your back.

Kanaya considers the eggs with an expert eye. “Right,” she announces briskly, spreading both arms to sweep the lot of you into the cottage like so much flotsam. “We’re having spaghetti. I insist you stay the night.”

Oh, thank fuck. You’ll have a place to rest tonight. Not that bunking outside would’ve been a big damn deal, but a shower and a hearty meal sounds so fucking fantastic you could shed a tear or two over it. You’re so relieved Kanaya’s willing to forgive your idiot blundering.

Unlike you.

*

The cottage is cozy, but tiny, one square space functioning as kitchen, living room and study, with only two doors set into the far wall. There’s bolts of fabrics and pillows everywhere and various items scattered on most surfaces, some of which you’ve only ever read about. You pick up a Soothe Bell and turn over it between your fingers while attempting to inch around the Kangaskhan taking up nearly half the room. It huffs a hot exhale into your hair and rumbles warningly. There’s a squashed berry in your pocket which you offer to its young, all nice and tucked away safely in the pouch. The little one dribbles juice all over itself, smacking and slobbering as it mashes the fruit to a pulp in its toothless mouth. You shake the Soothe Bell so it chimes. The Kangaskhan twitches an ear, its eyes lid. You’re allowed to pass.

Several baskets are lined up next to the hearth, two of which are filled with eggs. Liv has already conquered a third one, a ball of brown fluff with an white pompom tail perched on top. Seems like you’re not the only one who’s tired; Malik’s doing his little appraising turn-and-knead before curling up on the rug with an audible sigh. The embers glow softly, making the small room a little too stuffy, but even as you watch one of the eggs twitches and tips towards the warmth. Your heart speeds up a little.

Still covered in the dust and sweat accumulated on the road you all pile around the tiny, wobbly table for dinner. Lacking chairs, John cheerfully applies some strategic rib-poking until he’s conquered half of Dave’s chair to park his ass on, and proceeds with promptly inhaling most of Dave’s spaghetti. Dave makes a wounded, stepped-on noise before shovelling what’s left into his face like his life depends on it. Before long they’re making lightsaber noises as they use their forks to duel for the choicest meatballs. You’d try and pretend real fucking hard you don’t actually know these assholes, but you’ve just noticed you’re wearing one of Dave’s shirts so yeah, that shit’s not gonna fly. Ah well.

The first ten minutes are spent stuffing your faces to maximum capacity to try and satisfy your ravenous appetites. For a while it’s just spicy tomatoey goodness and the soft clatter of cutlery on plates. It’s only after John has stopped swallowing down whole meatballs without chewing that Kanaya speaks up. “So,” she begins, “you saw Terezi.”

Your spaghetti goes down the wrong pipe. You cough and splutter, until Dave deigns to thump you on your back. Well. That answers that. You’d suspected Kanaya might know what kind of Pokémon your eggs might hatch into just from looking at them. If Terezi is her first guess there’s a ninety-nine precent chance they’re dragon Pokémon. Well fuck. _Dragon Pokémon_. Your stomach does the oddest thing, excitement and apprehension tumbling together as your mind takes a virtual trip through your Pokédex for potential candidates.

You grunt. “Yeah, we sure fucking did.”

“So many dragons,” John whispers, staring numbly into the distance like a war veteran experiencing flashbacks.

Dave steals a meatball from under his nose. "Stuff was on fire, it was pretty snazzy in a terrifying sort of way,” he adds around a mouthful. Rose makes a face at him. He smacks harder, obnoxiously opening his mouth between bites. They’re like the worst kind of snotty siblings. “Plus we got free eggs.” He jabs his knife over his shoulder at the eggs.

“Yes, I rather figured,” Kanaya says rather dryly. “Hard to miss.”

Rose dabs at her mouth with a napkin. “Must be about ready to hatch, right?”

“They seem nearly overdue actually. How long have you had them?”

“About five or six weeks?” you hazard. “They were already pretty big when Terezi gave ‘em to me. It’s.” You put down your fork.

“It's?” Rose prompts.

This is exactly why you’re here, yet you’re absolutely fucking terrified of the answer. “Have you any idea why they haven’t… hatched yet? We’ve had them for over a month. Did. Are they, I mean.”

 _Did I break them?_ you don’t ask.

Fuck, you wouldn’t be surprised, even. You’re a goddamn expert at shooting yourself in the foot; a good thing falls into your lap and you’ll try damn hard to keep it safe and flawless and perfect, overreaching yourself so spectacularly you find you’re elbow-deep in your own ass with your happiness in itty bitty sparkling pieces on the fucking ground. Fucking shit up the Karkat Vantas way.

But what if. What if you actually did? Break them. What if you somehow managed to damage them, stunting the tiny creatures maturing within, just enough so they still live, but unable to hatch? You’ve been careful. You have. But, see above, fucking up shit seems to be your grand raison d’être. 

If you have… if you broke them somehow, you don’t know how you’ll forgive yourself.

“Well,” she responds thoughtfully, almost delicately. “Pokémon are highly intelligent and powerful creatures we have barely begun to understand. After they hatch they will be almost self-sufficient within a few hours and already more than capable of defending themselves not long after. Even so, they are not unlike children, you know.”

Automatically your gaze is drawn towards Casey’s cheerful mottled orange and Slimer’s oily tones.

“They are alive, Karkat,” Kanaya says into the ensuing silence. “And they can hear you.”

Your skin prickles into goosebumps, remembering all the instances you talked to them and felt like they heard, somehow.

“You might want to consider singing a lullaby,” Rose suggests.

It’s obviously meant in jest, but that part flies clear over John’s head, who perks up immediately. “Hey, that’s a great idea!”

You rub both hands across your face and groan. “Yes, clearly this is a quote-unquote _great idea_. There’s no way it can go wrong. Our track record is pristine on the dulcet mouthnoises-front. That Snorlax today was an illusion, a portent ever so kindly bestowed upon us revealing the ramifications of allowing Dave to rap at innocent yet powerfully magic creatures that can set shit on fire with their goddamn brain. Allow me to recap the gist of this psychedelic phantasm: BAD. FUCKING. PLAN.”

Kanaya blinks. Rose’s eyes gleam at Dave.

“Lalonde, did you hike your glorious self all the way over here just to heckle me?”

Angelic smile. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You don’t need to, I can feel your glee expanding outwards like a small supernova, it’s curdling the food in my stomach, the same food I worked so hard to scoop into my mouth and digest. No thanks to John here,” he jabs a thumb at John, who grins and pats his belly.

“Although Rose is not wrong, mind,” Kanaya points out, outright dismissing your squabbling. “There’s quite a few species of Pokémon who croon at their clutch as they approach hatching day. I suggest you try it.”

You snort and cross your arms. Ridiculous. She can’t honestly expect you to sing rockabye baby to a freaking _egg_. Not only is that completely fucking dumb, the egg would promptly crack and pulverise. Not like you're in possession of a singing voice here, exactly.

“Do you see my face Kanaya? It’s my special hell no, fuck that shit sideways with a shovel. I made it. Just now. For this special occasion.”

“I’ll sing,” John offers, going as far as to raise his hand enthusiastically. Ooh! Ooh! Pick me, pick me.

Groan. “Of course you will.”

John’s just one of those assholes who’s not ashamed to sing. Out loud and whenever the mood strikes him, at that, which is often. Although he does not possess a voice like the ringing bells of heaven motherfucking mighty above, he does sing with absolutely no reserve or hesitation and the confidence and obvious enthusiasm of it is what makes him a decent singer. The taste in music however… not so much.

You are so done with the Pokémon Rap. So fucking _done._

“Well, I think you should let him,” Kanaya points out.

John fistpumps. “Whoo!”

You glower at her. “Don’t enable him.”

“I have the best ideas,” Rose says with a fond smile at John. Then she turns to Dave. “Here’s another: do the dishes with me, Dave.”

“Karkat, I need to borrow your hell no face.”

“Get your own.”

Dave gets up to do the dishes with Rose, dragging his feet like a martyr approaching the chopping block. Once there they talk in soft, muted voices, bodies curving towards one another as they pass each other plates and various sharp, pointy objects without need for eye contact; Dave will already be reaching without Rose having to say anything.

That’s where they still are, over an hour later, after all the dishes have been washed, dried, neatly stacked, and discreetly whisked away to their respective cupboards by Kanaya. They’re just standing there, Rose with her hands still wrist-deep in the water, Dave with his shoulders hunched. It’s been long enough you and John have already unpacked, released your teams into the paddock out back, showered and changed into pyjamas. While you’re becoming sleepy with being clean and fed and comfortable, your eyes keep straying back towards the defensive line of Dave’s shoulders.

John throws himself onto the couch next to you, half in your lap due to the lack of room. There’s a very temperamental Espeon sprawled out over half the cushions, so far any attempts at moving it have gained you nothing but a creepy telekinetic cruise to the other side of the room. Definitely one of Rose’s Pokémon. “They don’t act like it, but they’re really close. Dirk lived with the Lalondes for a while and Dave and me saw Rose a whole lot,” John tells you.

Another something you weren’t aware of. There’s a lot of those and it really bothers the half-boiled shit out of you. After being up in each other’s business twenty-four seven you’d think you’d know this sort of shit about your best friends. “What? When?” you demand. “And why?”

“Bro left on a Pokémon Journey when he was our age, but Dave was still practically a baby so he came to live with us and Dirk stayed with Mom Lalonde,” John shrugs, flashing you a crooked little smile. “Probably for the best because Bro is a bit of a weirdo and he was too young to raise kids anyway, you know, being a kid himself.”

Bro. It’s only ever Bro, as far as you know there’s no ma or pa Strider in the picture. “John,” you say, “Dave’s parents… are they-“

“Dead.”

“Oh. Well fuck.”

John’s smile becomes smaller, and sadder. He’s short a mother, just like you, but at least his father stayed put. Unlike yours. But you’re done thinking about that, you remind yourself. Into the brooding box it goes and out of sight, gone and forgotten until you need to milk it for extra vindication when you want to roll in your self-masturbatory self pity.  

“It’s good that he’s talking to Rose,” John concludes with a nod.

Fine, you don’t care, they’re his bruised manfeels. It’s just, well, why can’t he talk about it with you or John? You were there with him, start-middle-finish and every gruelling second of the aftermath. After that, what’s there left to hide, really? You saw him cry. He let you see him cry. The failure cut him sharper than it did John, left a mark on Dave that’s barely scabbed over even now, you know this, you see it every time he calls on a Pokémon. Does he think you’d laugh at him? You wouldn’t, you’re an total dick but he’s your friend, he should fucking know that. You’re frowning.

“Rose is like his sister, Karkat, relax,” John says, settling back comfy into the pillows and closing his eyes. “Don’t take it so personally.”

How did-

John cracks open an eye at you. It’s bright and amused, pleased to have figured you out. He bumps shoulders with you, once, twice, all ‘hey snap out of your funk’ before staying put, warm and familiar. You suppose it might actually be easier to talk about with someone who’s further removed from that particular clusterfuck instead of tangled all up in it like you or John. Still. You don’t even know why you’re jealous of Rose, but you are. Blragh.

Kanaya arrives with an armful of blankets. “I’m afraid some of you’ll have the sleep on the floor.”

“Floor is fine,” John says. “Thanks again for feeding us and stuff. Here, let me help.”

Between the two of them they set up a nice, comfortable nest of knitted afghans, pillows and the new camping mats you purchased in Lumiose to act as buffer between your ass and the hardwood floors. Malik provides extra fluffiness by flopping down as close to the hearth as he can. You’re combing fingers through his fur when Dave returns soapy and fresh, dressed in his not-so ironic Pikachu footie pyjamas. There’s a small detour to scoop Casey and Slimer up under each arm and then he approaches your newly constructed refuge with intent. Oh boy. 

“Kumbaya, boys,” Rose says, smiling down at the three of you.  

You set your jaw. “We are _not_ singing lullabies.”

“How about the booty song? We can sing the booty song.”

“No, John,” you snap, even as Dave goes, “Yes.”

Rose pats one of the eggs fondly. “I can imagine no greater incentive to hatch than three melodious tenors prophesying a parade strapping plush rumps and all the advantages thereof.”

“Day of the dookie maker. Backdoor’s Revenge. 2 fast 2 glutes. A badonkadonk will rise. The Fellowship of the fanny. Caboose Reloaded. Dude, where’s my pooper?” Dave intones solemnly. “We should put together a mix tape.”

You whack him in the face with a pillow. “SHUT UP.”

“I like big butts and I cannot lie,” Rose sings. Somewhere in the bathroom Kanaya can be heard convulsively spitting out a mouthful of toothpaste. “Oops,” she covers her mouth with a hand, eyes wide with faux-guilt.

Johns pick up immediately with: “You other brothers can’t deny-“

“Lullabies it is!” you yell, flinging your arms wide and incidentally silencing John with a hand to his face. “Fine. Whatever. Like we have a shred of dignity even to preserve at this point. That said: Lalonde, _out_!”

She presents you with a moue. “I can offer critique. Hold up scoreboards. Provide snide commentary. Vote who will be the lucky guy graduate to the next round of Kalos’ Sing-Off. The winner may autograph my boob.”

You point firmly at the door. “Out.”

“What, I’m perfectly serious.”

“I know. Goodnight, Lalonde.”

She waggles her fingers at you and flicks off the overhead lights before closing the bedroom door.

You give it a moment, eyeing the door suspiciously, fully expecting a rejoinder of additional snarky commentary, but the door remains shut. All you can hear is the soft sound of Rose and Kanaya conversing, the rustle of sheets. You slide off the couch to join John and Dave in the verifiable mountain of blankets. The warmth of the fireplace has made it a wonderful toasty warm burrow that feels fucking fantastic against your tired, aching limbs. 

John’s buffing Casey’s shell, face scrunched up in concentration. When you reach out to touch the egg, your fingers find John’s instead, all wind roughened knuckles and small scabbed-over scratches. His hand is warm. Embarrassed, you snatch your hand away only for him to capture it and reel you right back in until the smooth curve of the shell meets your palm. Keeps it there, covering your fingers with his, pressing down firmly. Your ears are hot and you don’t understand what he’s trying to do, you want to pull away but he won’t let you.

“Karkat,” John whispers urgently and that’s when you feel it.

Movement.

Your mouth drops open, air slammed from your lungs in one fell swoop of sheer hope. John’s laughing, noiseless delight as he smooths his other hand over Casey’s shell and you can feel him positively thrum with excitement at your side.

Eyes never leaving the egg you flap a hand sideways, smacking Dave across his nose. “ _Dave_.”

His hand lands next to yours, so very pale compared to yours and John’s, with freckles smattering the back of his hand. John covers his as well, pinning in place. Dave sits there blinking at you both, confused. 

Something _stirs_ , scraping along the shell’s inside. Dave’s eyes go wide. “Holy shit.”

It's hatching. A panicky, buoyant bubble forms in your chest, choking your voice, choking your ability to do anything at all but sit there with John’s hand on yours and your heart on your tongue. You’ve been waiting so long, shit, you were worried it wouldn’t ever and now it finally is and you realize you have no fucking clue what to do. Oh no. Oh shit.

It rocks, visibly lurching to one side, causing all three of you to snatch your hands back. The egg rocks, then lists to one side and goes very, very still. The three of you wait one minute, then two. Longer. Ten minutes come and go, you realize it’s probably resting, but there’s nothing now, gone still and lifeless once more.

Did. Did it give up? “Fuck,” you grit out, almost soundless. What do you do?

Deliberately, pointedly even, Dave clears his throat, wets his lips and squares his shoulders. Gives a little toss of his hair because he’s a pillock and winks at you. He’s _got_ to be joking. If he raps, you are going to rip out his larynx, damning him to a lifetime of farting in morse code by ways of communication because the even stench is infinitely more preferable to an encore of this afternoon’s debacle. 

But Dave doesn’t rap. No, he sings instead:

“ _They didn't have you where I come from_  
_Never knew the best was yet to come_  
_Life began when I saw your face_  
_And I hear your laugh like a serenade_ …”

Yeah, okay, you just about wrench something by how your mouth hinges open in a spectacular free-for-all of pure shock. Dave’s not rapping, he’s actually _singing_ and he’s… he’s good. He’s… it’s lovely. The slight hoarseness of his voice becomes comfortably rough, just enough to chafe pleasantly around the soft words and there’s this slight, wavering timbre when he pitches his voice and your skin pinches into shiverygood goosebumps inside-out and all over your heart.

 

 

Okay, but, _oh_ , wow?

At last, something that comes as much a surprise to John as it is to you, because you’ve never seen him so taken aback, wide-eyed and lips parted to stare at Dave. Dave notices, there’s a flicker of a smile over his face and then he leans in to dig an elbow into John’s side. “ _How long do you want to be loved? Is forever enough, is forever enough_ …” he bobs his head encouragingly.

“..iiii _iiiiis forever enough, cause I'm never, never giving you up_!” John joins in, still wavering with bewilderment until he takes to it with a will and that’s when the words break into pure melody. Every ounce of happiness on his face can be heard in the words. 

It hurts somehow, you’re not sure why, but you want to hunch over it, that sharp brittle feeling, because it’s so strange and wonderful. Nice. Good. The words jumble in your mind and none of them even so much as match up to what you’re feeling right now. The two of them together, it’s so nice, they don’t match perfectly, not at all, and somehow every single note of discord sounds like triumph. John a little too loud and happy, Dave a little too low and serious. But it’s _nice_ , a prickly intimate something.

The ghost of a sensation of hands smoothing your hair from your brow and being carried threads soft-footed past your mind’s eye. 

For the longest time you just sit there, trying to cope with, fuck, everything, worried their combined voices might lift you right out of your skin. You look at them, really look at them, only to find they’re already watching you. Waiting. For you, you realize with a jolt.

Half the song has gone, they’ve reached “ _You can close your eyes when you're miles away_ ,” by the time you hesitantly join in at “ _And hear my voice like a serenade_.”

Your voice cracks on ‘serenade’, because there weren’t any sudden convenient miracles, your singing voice cheerfully continues to suck hairy, undercooled Walrein balls. Raw, and gritty with years of screaming yourself crosseyed permanently etched into your vocal cords, jarring, the notes coming out fumbled on your tongue. All sorts of awful, you hardly dare to raise your voice above a whisper, but… you remember this song. Not the same memory of the fingers in your hair, but more recent and more real. Your dad sang it to you. He sang it to you for a long, long time after your mother… couldn’t anymore.

Despite your strangled croak, the three of you don’t sound half bad together. A slight dissonance persist, but there’s a brief, stunning moment where John gentles and you push and Dave steadies and it’s pretty damn fucking perfect actually. 

“ _Is forever enough? Cause I'm never, never giving you up_.”

It hangs there for a moment, in a stunned pause.

John snickers into the flustered silence, nervously. “A new boyband is born!” he announces, shattering the strange fragility into something more teasing and familiar instead. Punches Dave in the shoulder, too. “Dave, you stupid dick, why do you rap when you can sing like _that_?!” 

Dave tucks his chin and shrugs. “Because I’d rather-“

“SHH!” you hiss at them.

The egg moved.

You slide a hand over the crest, pulse thundering between your ears. There’s noise and just like that something is nudging back against your palm, saying hello to the warmth of your touch. You swallow thickly. Someone grabs your other hand and holds on tight. 

The shell deforms, bulging outwards and then, with barely any noise, splits, right next to your thumb. There’s a long period during which the little one is gathering its strength, pressed close enough to the crack to make it yawn open and close in rapid succession as it pants for air, winded.

God. What is it? The crack is too narrow to see.

“Come on,” you whisper, leaning in. “Just a little more.”

A small noise like a cheep comes in response and your face is doing a thing, you don’t know what, but your cheeks ache with it and your lips tremble. Again that soft, thwarted peep, as it exerts pressure against the crack. Snuffling at your thumb, you don’t dare breathe, let alone move. A portion of the shell breaks away entirely with a soft snap. A tiny blue face pokes out, blinking against the muted firelight. The shard is stuck to its face with gooey dampness.

Carefully, _carefully_ you pluck the piece away. “Oh,” someone exhales, like they’re in pain.

“Is. Is that?” John splutters.

It’s a Dratini. She gave you a Dratini, knowing… all those years you. All those years that you… you. And she. Never managed to tell her just how much. How much… fuck. God.

Oh, _Terezi_.

“Karkat, are you crying?” John suddenly demands.

“No, shut up, I just have a fucking branch in my eye,” but your voice is entirely too desperate and soft to be convincing.

The Dratini gives an exhausted sigh and rests its chin on the second knuckle of your thumb. It’s so small. And sticky. And a dragon Pokémon. Oh my god. This is either going to be so awesome or a goddamn disaster because that’s a mother. fucking. dragon. Pokémon. _Shit_.

“Congratulations, you are now the father of a sleepy noodle,” Dave says, trying very hard for blasé and failing entirely. The Dratini yawns, displaying a toothless mouth and a tiny, pointed tongue. “A sleepy yawning noodle,” he amends.

Wetness disconnects from your chin and _plips!_ onto a fold of your shirt. “Geez, Karkat,” John laughs a little, baffled at your violent emotional reaction. Then again he also rubs your back to ease you through the sobs you’re furiously biting back behind gritted teeth.

“Here,” Dave murmurs, sliding a finger under one edge and widening the hole until he can gently scoop the Pokémon out and place it into your hands.

So small. Its so small, a chubby coil of blue draped in your cupped hands. You can feel the fast flutter of its heartbeat as it curiously stares up at you, all newborn and wobbly and flawless. You can hardly breathe for the knot in your chest, squeezing.

It takes you three times, maybe more, before you can choke out a single word, “Water.” Scrub your face furiously against your shoulder to get rid of your idiotic bawling. “Going to need water soon.”

“Kanaya put out a pail earlier,” Dave informs you.

She knew. You suspected she would, you didn’t dare ask because you wanted to be spoiled so badly, but you wanted to see it hatch _without_ knowing even more. Wanted to expect nothing besides the joy of it finally being there. And now it is. Right, shit you need a moment. John’s practically in your lap by now, so you hold your blue noodle out to him. “Do you want to-?”

“Gimme gimme!” John grins, holding out his hands like Oliver Twist asking for more gruel. You place the Dratini in his hands. It goes flop. Your heart does too.

If John gets any more delighted about this development you swear he’ll fucking sparkle. “Hello Casey!” he breathes, lifting the Dratini up to his face to mimic its bleary gaze playfully.

You go to fetch that pail. While you’re at the sink you take a moment to splash your face, scolding yourself for losing your shit so completely. _Holy shit Karkat it’s just a baby Pokémon, get a grip!_ Right. You suck it up and carry the pail back towards the others.

Dignity freshly scraped together you almost lose it all over again when you see it nurse on John’s pinky. There’s muffled, sleepy wet noises and John’s just smiling, looking so sure about what he’s doing. It looks right, almost, which is strange to realize. John’s good at this. There’s no reserve in his fond smile, he just looks completely and utterly _happy_.

The pail gets set aside just a little longer, because John’s coaxing the Dratini off his pinky -it disconnects with a wet pop and a fussy mewl- and then it’s Dave’s turn.

“Whoa, wait up, I’m not sure I can-“

“Shut up, Dave,” John says fondly and puts the Dratini in his hands.

Dave shuts up. He throat clicks when he swallows and he tries so fucking hard to keep his face straight, but it keeps wanting to crumple with emotion. Hah. “How do I, ohshit.” 

Quickly, you scoot over to him. “Steady,” you murmur into his ear.

“Uhm. It’s… it’s doing a thing,” he yelps. It is. It’s winding around his wrist like a tacky bracelet and crooning. In fact, the more Dave talks the more elated the Pokémon seems, humming in response. It’s halfway up his sleeve before either of you can do anything about it. 

“Okay, it’s in my armpit. Mayday. Oh my god how is its belly so soft.” He gives a convulsive shudder as it disappears into his shirt. “This is officially one of the weirdest things ever and that’s including the time we saw that naked Mr. Mime streaking through the streets in Lumiose.”

It pops out through the collar of his pyjamas and settles itself around his neck like stole. Lemonsnout used to do that, too, two evolutions prior. You and Terezi would be sitting on river bank, feet dangling in the water as the setting sun cast dancing flecks of light on the surface, bright and blinding while you talked. Just that, talking, for hours and hours and _hours_. Every single time Lemonsnout would eel his way up to you, find your leg, and slither upwards until you had a face full of wet Pokémon snuffling at your hair. You’d return home only after the stars came out, sporting the worst tangles and cowlicks, and smelling vaguely of wet lizard.

It was great.

“Well, that’s one out of two,” John points out.

“Hey,” you grunt with your swollen voice, rapping your knuckle twice in quick succession against Slimer’s shell. “Knock, knock, you lazy shit.”

_Crack_

The egg splits right under your finger, and doesn’t move. It doesn’t move.

“ _No_ ,” someone moans, horrified. You.

No.

You broke it. You _broke_ it.

No, fuck, fuck oh no shit no, you didn’t mean to-to, you didn’t even hit it all that hard! Just, just tapped it! You didn’t mean to. To. Oh, god, you _broke_ it. You broke your egg.

You killed it.

Your heart’s already in your throat, thick and cold and limp, the sick feeling rising, choking around the lifeless lump of it. Your mouth goes sour as something slick and wet drips out of the crack, leaking. Yolk. Viscous and gloppy matter, unfinished, won’t ever be now, you killed it before it ever could be.

“No,” you moan again, not sobbing as much as breathing too hard. The puddle spreads and you can only watch, numb, as it oozes towards your knee, where it sort of. Sticks. Stickily. Insistently.

“What the fuck,” Dave says, not panicking at all, no, just vaguely baffled and you don’t understand how he’s not disgusted by what you’ve done. The Dratini hums, drawing your eyes away from the voided egg. “Karkat,” Dave says, “Is it just me or is the the, uh, yolk, romancing your knee?”

John squints at it. “That sure is some affectionate yolk.” 

Dave sticks out a finger, going for an experimental poke and you want to slap his fucking hand away, how dare he?! how dare he when— his finger connects, meeting resistance as well as an indignant _gloop_. You blink.

Dave snorts. “Hah. It’s a damn Pokémon. Karkat the yolk is a Pokémon. I didn’t know we had a Yolk Pokémon, did you know we had a Yolk Pokémon, John? A Trash Bag Pokémon I can deal with, but a Yolk Pokémon is just taking it too damn far.”

“Hey, didn’t we see those on Route 19? I tried to catch one…” John muses and that’s when it clicks, the terror receding enough so you can see it for what it is. 

“A Goomy,” you say, rather faintly. All those histrionics for nothing. Thank fuck. You’ve done a lot of godawful shit you can live with, but killing a Pokémon, even accidentally? No.

It makes a ‘blorps’ noise, shudders. Two beady eyes drift to the surface to stare at you, one blinking open before the other. They’re all pupil ashimmer with a rainbow of iridescence, like a greasy puddle in the street. The knee of your pants is steadily being soaked through with slime.

“It’s so cute!” John pats it. His hand _plap plaps_ against its tacky surface. Cute. Right. _He_ would think so. “Karkat, can I hold it?”

“Uh, sure.” You… sort of scrape it up and dribble the Pokémon into his hands. It goes _blrrrpt_ and stares up at this new person with big googley eyes; apparently delighted at this new development of being held.

John just sits there petting it, scratching its little head (or the approximate area thereof, it’s kind of hard to tell with it being ninety percent slime) until he’s covered in purple goop, saying “Yuck,” while laughing in the most affectionate way. Liv pokes her head out of the blankets to sniffle at the Goomy and gets slimed. She snorts, makes a disgusted face and hops off, affronted. John just laughs some more, warm and happy, calling after her.

Your heart does that… that thing, that weird scary thing that happens whenever John laughs and before you know it you say: “Do you want it?”

John outright gapes at you and shit, you don’t blame him, you stunned yourself with that, so you’re left staring in owlish surprise at each other. John snaps out of it first. “What? No, dude, I couldn’t, Terezi gave you the eggs. They’re… they’re yours!”

“You named it,” you point out and despite being surprised, this feels right somehow. You nod, convinced. “Very appropriately at that.”

John shakes his head. “I named Casey, too, and I don’t see you forking over your Dratini.”

“ _HELLNO_!” you bark, barely managing to bite back the _mine_ , but it’s obvious in the sheer fervor of the outburst anyway. Uh. You duck your head to hide your face behind the overgrown fringe of your curls. John snickers. 

Dave’s just… smiling, hand absently papping away the tiny noodle attempting to nurse on his earlobe. It’s not that he never smiles, it’s just that it’s very honest now, unguarded, almost like he’s smiling for an entirely different reason besides the fuzzies from witnessing baby Pokémon hatch. 

Did you do a strange thing just now? You did, didn’t you. Your childhood crush gave you two dragon Pokémon and the first thing you fucking do after they hatch is to give one of them to John. That’s. Strange. Fuck, it is. “Right, that was dumb. I’m dumb. Just give the booger to me and I’ll see if-“

“Karkat,” Dave interjects, just your name, simple. You stop back-pedalling and consider.

Question: do you want to give away your Goomy? Answer: not particularly. 

Question: do you want to give away your Goomy to John? Answer: the Goomy makes John happy. So. Oh, fuck.

You look away, stupidly shy for fuck-knows-why. “Uh. John. Do you want-“

John bursts out with a choked “ _YES!_ ” leaning forward with barely contained eagerness, startling you. Clears his throat and hitches a shoulder as his face goes ruddy. “I mean, yeah, if you’re sure.”

You give him a solemn nod. “I’m sure.”

There’s that godawful confusing smile again, half smothered against your skin as John tries to hug you, completely forgetting he’s holding the Goomy. It gets half-squished between your chests and glues the both of you together. Permanently, it seems. You plant a hand in John’s face and try to shove him off, to no effect except for John drooling on your palm. Dave tries to pry you free, gets his hand sucked in instead.

In the end you have to yell for Kanaya until she comes stumbling through the door, half awake and utterly confused at the sight of three of you plastered together, Casey the Dratini nursing happily on Dave’s earlobe and Malik fluting anxiously at your predicament.

A hand appears from around the door with a camera, snaps a picture.

Goddammit.

(you’ll ask Rose for a copy tomorrow)

*

Most of night you lie awake.

One of your hands is submerged in the pail, with the Dratini’s tail curled around your index. Dave’s wheezing exhales against your shoulder, fingers twitching occasionally as he dreams, hair molten gold in the gentle throbbing glow of the embers. He’s warm and familiar, positioned between you and the door, with a hand curled around Caledfwlch’s Poké ball.

 

 

John is on the couch and snoring, rather loudly with the way his head’s thrown back over the armrest. In his lap is Goomy, gloopglooping in tandem with John’s snores. It rather looks like someone sneezed a copious helping of snot onto his crotch. Liv has retreated to the slime free environment of the Kangaskhan’s pouch.

You’re watching no-longer-an-egg-Casey sleep, mesmerised, how its rolled up like a chubby garden hose and huffing out bubbles though its nose. Curling your finger along its body, you wonder whether its an he or a she.

So small. Your chest keeps strangling itself around the overload of tenderness and awe. Yours. Little and tiny and defenceless, yours to protect and raise and do right by.

OH GOD WHAT IF YOU FUCK UP??

God, but you’re terrified. As soon as your eyelids finally begin to droop a new flurry of panic will yank them wide-open again, like missing a step descending into slumberland to find reality is coming up fast to smack some sense into you.

But it never hits.

This _is_ reality and all you can do is try and land on your feet. Might just break your motherfucking legs, though.

“Go to sleep, Karkat,” Dave mumbles.

“I can’t,” you whisper. You want to but you can’t.

Dave huffs, a hand coming up to scrub at his face. “Does ickle widdle Krabkrab need me to sing him a lullaby?” 

It’s meant to be a joke. You can tell, but your heart all but turns itself over and displays its belly like a bitch. “Uhm.”

“…Karkat plz.”

“Shut up,” you snarl, jostling his face with your shoulder. “Where did you learn that song?”

There’s a long pause that’s just Dave exhaling, long and sustained as if to steady himself. Then: “Bro sang it.”

That doesn’t match up at fucking all with the little you know of the man. Doesn’t match up with the katanas and the irony schtick and the shitty webcomics and the weird sex puppets and the impromptu Pokémon battles and constant strifing. And yet he sang that song to Dave when he was a child. You’re still mulling it over when Dave begins to sing, sleepy and muzzy into the sleeve of your shirt:

 

 _How long do you want to be loved_  
_Is forever enough, is forever enough_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AGAIN massive thanks to Eri ([sailerscrimshaw](http://sailerscrimshaw.tumblr.com/)) for providing the lovely illustrations, their art will also be up on their blog and I'd appreciate it if you could take a moment to hop over there and give it a like and/or reblog!
> 
> Alright, this was a long time in the coming, but at last, chapter 12 of Pokéstuck. I'd like to thank pinkstarpirate, since she heavily influenced this chapter and helped me establish the final version of it.
> 
> For those interested in more Pokéstuck verse tidbits and randomness (such as how Dave acquired Caledfwlch, or who does the chores) feel free to visit my [Pokéstuck tag](http://everlind.tumblr.com/tagged/pok%C3%A9stuck) on my tumblr. Likewise, if you have questions of your own always feel free to ask them (IC asks are also welcome).


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Detailed info on the boys' teams: [Karkat](http://everlind.tumblr.com/post/87516195308), [John](http://everlind.tumblr.com/post/95754863263), [Dave](http://everlind.tumblr.com/post/79800294622).  
> Trainer sprites for the boys by [Pi](http://thepioden.tumblr.com/)!  
> 

Without the eggs, your arms feel empty. Even though you’ve got your hands full. Within barely a week Casey triples in both size and weight. She goes from just about filling the cup of your palm to a hefty armful of lively blue noodle dragon. And yes, Casey’s a she, and she’s pretty much the most perfect thing you’ve ever seen.

Quite some time is spent submerged elbow-deep in the river, teaching her to navigate the strong currents below the deceptively placid surface. Well, not that you have to teach her much. The instinct is inborn, you’re just standing around getting pruney feet while she zips through the water.

Speaking of which.

“Yeah okay, that’s enough for today, you frenzied waterhose..” You reach for her and Casey eels towards your outstretched fingers.

You scoop her up.

Or rather, try to.

She’s water-slick and sinuous, and she slithers out of your grasp like a banana rocketing out of its peel in a slapstick. Her body slaps around your face and applies one of the few moves she’s learned so far: wrap. You totter backwards, arms pinwheeling.

_SPLASH_

“Karkat, are you okay?” John calls from the riverbank.

Casey perches on your head like a turban. You’re soaked through to the skin. The water is freezing cold and your mouth is hanging open in surprise.

You blink, and start to laugh.

John stops mid-skid down the bank, incredulous.

“Casey,” you say, and gently lift her off your head. She winds herself through and around the cradle of your arms and snuffles with her wet nose at your wet cheek. “Bet you’re real fucking proud of yourself now, huh? Yeah.”

Her nose pokes somewhere against your ear, ticklish, and a thousand small suns explode in your heart. Ticklish. You fail to bite back a chuckle.

The silty bottom of the river is hard to stand up in, especially when your balance’s compromised by seven pounds of squirming dragon. Soft mud squishes through your toes as you stomp towards the riverbank. You glance up to see where John and Dave are, because they’ve gone horribly quiet and that never bodes well, things get set on fire that way.

They’re both up the bank, looking down at you. Dave’s smiling to himself, but John, John’s blushing so _hard_.

“What?” you demand, looking down to see whether any of your clothing is incriminatingly transparent. Nothing seems to be. Just muddy and sodden. “What is it now? What did I do?”

“Nah, it’s okay, just keep doing what you were doing,” Dave assures you.

Yes, you feel very reassured. Especially when he keeps smiling like that, like it’s some sort of big, obvious secret he’s not going to point out for you if you can’t figure it out yourself. You check again just to be sure, but nope, you’re not flashing anything improper besides your cantankerous frontispiece.

“Which is what, floundering around like a lobotomised Tympole propelling itself to nirvana in a seizure inducing demonstration of spontaneous self-termination?”

“Please, those moves were some sick moves,” Dave says. “Really had a rhythm going there, all that was missing was a little foam around the mouth.”

“Shut your raging cakehole.”

“Alas, there is no cake in this hole, therefore your argument is invalid.”

“Seriously. Shut up.” To John, you add: “What’re you looking at?”

John’s jaw snaps shut. “Nothing.”

Yeah, right. “Here, hold this.” You dump Casey into his arms (“Ew gross!” John says, delighted, as Casey promptly soaks the front of his shirt) and snatch up the towel you left on the grass instead. “Where have you two been all day? Thanks for helping out with chores by the way. Very appreciated. It’s almost like you two aren’t completely useless at all.”

“Hey. We found the Battle Château!” John says.

“Oh goodie me, you’re right, that excuses everything!” Although you’ve always really wanted to visit the Battle Château. You don’t say that, but peel out of your wet shirt instead and drape it over John’s head. Arms full of dragon Pokémon, he can do exactly jackshit about it.

“Ew. Gross,” he says, less delighted.

It’s just… one of those moments, then. Walking back to Kanaya’s Cottage with the sun low and glittering on the river, the skin on your back prickling in the light breeze. John and Dave are talking over your head about the Battle Château - they didn’t go in yet - and Casey has her head propped on John shoulder to keep you in her sight, adoring, trusting, and it’s just. It’s nice.

Smells like sun-baked earth and warm grass and the minerals from the river on your skin, it’s nice enough you kind of want to stop and stay, it’s such a good moment.

The cottage, too, is nice. You don’t feel like you’re out of place and intruding, Rose is at the table, fair head bowed over a notebook and legs tucked up underneath, she smiles when the three of you come through the door. It’s not home, but could be, might be, if there was- no.

That’s idle fantasy, because Rose and Kanaya have their own patterns, their own pace and this is theirs, no matter how easy it is to be here, how strangely well you fit into their lives. Besides, you’d need more rooms, more space, enough so that the three of you- the… three of you…

How would that even fucking work? If – when - the journey ends you’ll have to go and do something useful, can’t roam Kalos forever, aimless and living off spare change, odd jobs and other people’s generosity. One of them will be Champion, will live near the League - and do they think about that, you wonder, that there can only be one Champion and there’s two of them?

John’s trying his best to pry Casey off his arm and into the pail as Kanaya sweeps in, Kangaskhan on her heels.

“We should get them started on their pokéballs tomorrow,” Kanaya tells you. Quite firmly.

You nod, though you’re beginning to see why John won’t even consider training Liv to accept a pokéball. Lucky for you, you’re possessing of greater mental facilities compared to the odious deluge of the Egbertian mindscape, and are perfectly aware that a pokéball is, in fact, good for a Pokémon.

Besides, neither Casey or Slimer can be carried around like a Buneary. Both need damp environments and Slimer, well, you’ve been keeping him in a bucket (male, Kanaya says, though how she can make out anything in that gooey globoid creature you can only guess, but hey, you’re not the expert). Everywhere the Goomy touches there’s a stain to show for it, not unlike a greasy donut might leave on a paper napkin and he’s so tender you’re afraid of handling him too roughly.

“Sure,” you say, pretending there’s no sinking feeling.

The Battle Château will wait, it’s not going anywhere. John and Dave will. though — go places, that is, and they will do so without you. As they have been the past few days and that’s okay, they’ll probably take Rose with them, and that’s okay, too.

It is.

Skylark finally learned Fly as a command, although she’s too small for it to be of any use at the moment. Rose helped. That’s okay.

You just. Wish you’d been there. Which is stupid. They’re training, you told them to, and Kanaya’s very gently approaching you on the whole Pokémon breeding front and there’s no need for three of you to deal with the newly hatched babies. Crowding the babies wouldn’t be even remotely helpful and it’s good to not be crammed into one another’s personal space twenty-four fucking seven for once. It’s a relief to have some time to yourself, it is - it is! - and yet you’re totally, ridiculously territorial of John and Dave. Hah. Shit, you need to learn to appreciate your own company again.

There. You’ve just poked holes into the good, wholesome feeling you had working for you. Well done, Karkat.

You pick up Liv and sit down on the couch with her in your lap, prickly all over. Pale arms drape over the edge of the couch, long, rough-knuckled fingers dangling level with your shoulder without touching.

“We’ll wait to go and check out the Château until we’re on the road again,” Dave says.

You hate that he knows. “You don’t have to wait for me.”

“You’re right, we don’t,” Dave agrees, easy, and John flops over the back of the couch on your other side.

Smiles. “It’ll be more fun if you’re there."

You swallow your heart back down and don’t answer. John ruffles your hair anyway.

*

The next day Rose takes them to the Parfum Palace.

John looks skeptical about the whole venture, but Dave tinkers until he gets the camera app working on his Pokégear and starts off the day by taking a picture of your sleep-rumpled face. You punch him in the ribs and get pecked on the head by Feathery Asshole.

It’s quite a trip, they’ll be gone far into the evening. Only when they’re out the door and gone you wonder whether that’s Lalonde’s plan. Because now Kanaya appears in the doorway holding several different types of pokéballs. She’s right. It’s time.

Early afternoon finds you both taking shelter under a large tree. It’s hot today and if it was just you and the boys you’d long have taken off your shirt. You’re sure Kanaya couldn’t care less about your shamelessly exposed nipples, but it’d be weird as several sweaty fucks. For you mostly. It’s only around John and Dave the amount of skin on display has ceased to matter, though you remember it being a sour encounter to swallow when you first had to undress or bathe with them blithely doing the same right next to you. Seems silly now. Seems a lifetime ago.

Kanaya lines up pokéballs neatly between you both. “Well then."

You reach out and touch a bright red one. “I’ve only used regular balls,” you say. Other pokéballs are expensive. John has one Great Ball that he found somewhere, but you suspect it’s defective - which would explain why it was lying at the side of the road, abandoned. Every pokémon he’s attempted to catch with it has escaped. Even Skylark is in a regular ball.

“That’s a Cherish Ball,” Kanaya says. “Most people use these for special occasions such as birthdays or commemorations. However, may I recommend this one? This is a Nest Ball, it’s better for weaker pokémon and I generally use them for my own hatchlings. Or you might prefer this one instead, which is the Luxury Ball. It is more comfortable and will make most pokémon more amenable towards you. Though yours already seem more than favourably disposed towards you.”

You glance at Casey, draped over the edge of her pail and licking the fabric of your shirt for no other discernible reason than that it is attached to you and therefore deserves her drool. “If it’s more comfortable for them I want the Luxury Ball,” you say, taking the black ball with a red enamelled band along its upper half. “Please,” you add belatedly.

Kanaya smiles like she knows that’d be your answer. “Very well then. Let’s get started."

They take to it better than you expected. Except Slimer completely _absorbs_ the ball the first few times rather than the other way around, leaving you and Kanaya attempting to gently squeeze the ballit from his body. It feels like popping a ginormous, fossilised zit. 

“You go _inside_ the ball,” you tell him firmly and finally resolve the issue by manually pouring him out of his plastic bucket as Kanaya holds the pokéball open. It feels unfair to click it shut on him while he’s looking at you with those beady eyes, but Kanaya insists on it, if only so the ball can imprint on him. Wouldn’t want anybody else to capture him.

And then they’re both in a pokéball. You know perfectly well it provides the ideal environment for either of them respectively —but to you it’s a ball in the palm of your hand. The pail and bucket are empty. Casey and Slimer are but a finger touch away and somehow that distance seems enormous. You let them out again almost instantly.

“That went very well,” Kanaya tells you. “Repeat the progress at least once a day to begin with, building up to frequent intervals and a longer duration."

“Okay,” you agree begrudgingly. There’s no doubt in you both Casey and Slimer are perfect and amazing and will learn very fast, but you’re not at all sure you’re ready for them to be contained to a spherical object once more.

Those eggs might have mildly traumatised you. You're starting to believe you're not cut out to be a breeder at all.

Kanaya stands up, brushes down her skirt though there’s not a single blade of grass on her. You lumber upright with less grace and far more debris. “Let us talk shop,” Kanaya says.

Well fuck. You clear your throat. “Kanaya,” you begin, “I’m not sure I’m the ri-"

“Pokémon Breeders don’t just breed Pokémon, Karkat,” she interrupts you. “There’s so much more to it than that."

Setting your jaw, you follow her along the paddock. Her place isn’t huge, or lavish, but it is meticulously tidy with an obvious effort to maximise the comfort for each Pokémon. One of the pens holds several Vulpix.

“It’s not so much about breeding,” Kanaya tells you. “Clearly that’s a significant portion, but we typically concern ourselves with the raising of Pokémon, for both health and friendship. Some go further, and attempt to have the parents pass on desirable traits or moves to the offspring so they might enter competitive fields. None of that happens without looking at grooming and raising, as well as nutrition. It requires dedication. It requires willpower.”

She looks at you. You swallow.

“It’s easier to catch a Pokémon in the wild, and tame it. Quicker, even. What we do? Takes time,” she stretches her fingers over the fence. Immediately, the Vulpix bound up to sniff her hand. One of them still has their white tail. As Kanaya scratches under its chin it splits ever so slightly at the tip. Her voice is warm when she adds: “But it’s very rewarding.”

Something has grown very warm and very heavy in your chest. It’s too big to push words past. Instead you reach into the pocket of your jeans and find a Poké Puff. A russet nose nuzzles into your palm and lips it up.

Slowly the tail splits into two.

Holy shit.

It’s Snorlax, and Casey, and Slimer. It’s Liv sleeping in John’s arms and Caledfwlch ready at Dave’s hip. It’s your whole team every day of your goddamn life. It watching them perform a difficult move or gladly obey a command or hang on just that little longer because it’s _you_.

Krabby was the first Pokémon you ever caught. It was mom who’d given you the pokéball and your dad who bought you an ice cream after. It had been on a vacation to Undella, before he took up the banner for the universal liberation of Pokémon.

You wonder what he’d think of you know.

Vulpix is licking your palm to chase down the last crumbs. Its tongue is unbelievably warm, but not nearly as hot as the breath almost searing the tender inside of your wrist.

You’re not interested in being Champion. Battling is fun, absolutely exhilarating and you’d be lying if you said you didn’t enjoy crushing your opponents. You _know_ what you’re doing. You’d love to get your hands on a Mega Ring, you’d love to find Mega stones, puzzle out how it works, for who it works -why, how. But that’s not all you want. You like Pokémon, and who fucking doesn’t, but if that’s not what you want from them -not anymore, then what is?

Part of you gets your father. You get what drives him, you’ve seen why. He’s not wrong. But he sure as fuck isn’t right either.

“Alright.”

Kanaya looks at you. “I do not mean to force you into a position you are uncomfortable with. I may have been… pushing.”

You slant a crooked grin at her. “A little.”

“It is just that I believe you’d do quite well. You have a certain manner with Pokémon one doesn’t see very often.”

You push out an exhale through your nostrils. “I’d like to do _something_ right.”

“You will,” Kanaya says, her tone sure. Her eyes slide back towards the tree, where Casey’s diligently watching you from her pail.

Alright. You can do this. “Where do I start?”

Kanaya smiles at you. She’s so breathtaking you can hardly stand to watch. “Let me show you.” She takes your hand. Her fingers are long and her grip firm and you think of family. You think of Kanaya and Rose, your brother and father. Terezi and Sollux. John. Dave.

The pen you’re led to is remarkably small and appears to be filled with stones and grass, and no Pokémon. “Oh, _honestly,_.” Kanaya tuts.

You’ve no idea why she begins turning over stones, at least not until one gives between her fingers like a handful of putty and the crescent crag on the surface cracks open in a pink grimace. Well fuck you sideways. That’s not a rock at all.

“Is… is that a _Ditto_?”

“It sure is. Rise and shine sleepyhead!”

The Ditto yawns. Its mouth becomes the miniature vacuum. You’ve never seen a Ditto before and don’t know what you expected beyond an amorphous blob that is capable of physics-defying transformations.

Which is exactly what it looks like. This one leans more towards the pink side of its documented color spectrum. Kanaya plops it into your hands. It feels smooth, with none of Slimer’s slickness. A bit like holding a pound of saran-wrapped flesh. Yeeeech. Ditto gives a wide, gormless smile. Aw.

“There you are, then. Ditto can breed with any Pokémon regardless of its gender or egg group. You’re most welcome.”

“Wait. You’re _giving_ it to me? Kanaya, you can’t give me a Pokémon. Aren’t Ditto like, pretty fucking rare?”

Kanaya cocks her eyebrow at you. “Oh please, _do_ attempt to stop me. It will be amusing. Besides have you not just given Slimer to John?”

“That’s—! That’s not the same.”

Kanaya sniffs. “Of course it isn’t. Silly me.” Her eyes crinkle up at the corners.

It’s not though. Slimer will be coming with yo— oh. _Oh_. Realisation hits you like a slew of bricks in the gut and your heart drops like a bomb.

Above, then suns shines on.

*

Six Pokéballs.

To anybody else they might seem identical. But just by looking at them, you know —Malik, here. This one Scratch. Sick over there. Krabby. Shouty and Nubby.

Six balls. They form a neat line in front of you.

To your right, Casey and Slimer lean together in their new Luxury balls. In your lap rests a Nest Ball, holding the new and unexpected addition to your family, the one who might be the key to figuring out what the hell you’re going to do with yourself.

That’s nine.

By the rules of the League - by the _law_ - the limit is six, because a Pokémon with a ball means they could be used for battle. Just having all nine within your possession makes you nervous, you could have your goddamn licence retracted for this. Generally a Pokédex will detect the transgression in capacity and digitally send the surplus to the corresponding terminal. Third parties won’t even consider giving you a surplus Pokémon, be it at daycare or at a center, not wanting to risk being found complicit. It’s kind of a big fucking deal.

Neither you or Kanaya even for a moment considered… Casey and Slimer didn’t have a damn ball until a mere few hours ago. It was a nasty shock when she understood - you _both_ understood - what that meant. You thought you wanted privacy for this, and she gave you exactly that, because Kanaya is kind of awesome and you love her for it. But the gorgeous summer day seems mocking and you wish she’d stayed and held your hand. For this.

Shit.

 _SHIT_.

There’s nothing wrong with storing Pokémon a terminal. Fuck, the terminal even provides a superior experience compared to a pokéball. They’re larger, can hold more data and will actively adapt and evolve to the Pokémon’s needs. At any pokécenter you’d be able to withdraw them. A terminal is, in many ways, preferable to a pokéball.

Then why are you feeling like this?

You can’t choose. You can’t. How could you possibly look at any of them and say, no, not you.

One by one, you release them. The original six.

It’s instant pandemonium. Sick screams his discontent at the skies. Shouty slobbers on Nubby, who clobbers at him with her bone. Krabby makes an instant break for freedom and mischief. Scratch attempts to burrow underground while Malik sheds like the world’s fluffiest pixie sprinkling dust.

They’re a complete disaster. They’re _your_ disaster.

_don’t cry they don’t have to see you cry_

“Hey guys—“ your voice gravels out.

As one, all six of them look at you. Usually it takes creaming and pushing and pulling and bribing and throwing cold water over them. Now, just the sound of your voice. They _know_ , easy as that.

You take a long, shaky breath. “C’mere, guys. I’ve got to—got to tell you something.”

_don’t please don’t look at me like that_

You’re absolute fucking trash. They’ve been yours since forever. They’re not just Pokémon, they’re your friends. Yours. They’re _yours_. They trust you. They love you.

“So, I’ve got… I don’t know what to do. Here, look. These are yours right? And there’s only six, because people will get mad if I have more. John and Dave don’t have more than six either, right? Right. So this one is Casey and this here is Slimer. They got a ball like you guys now, because they’re big enough. And this is Ditto, who is going to help me learn to take better care of you guys. That’s… that’s nice right? Slimer is going to go with John-” your voice cracks. There goes the first tear.

There’s a distant, horrified awe as all six of them crowd you in alarm. You’re patted and prodded, nuzzled and cooed at.

“Don’t, I—STOP IT-fuck you, you blithering heap of misfits. Don’t you fucking get it? I can’t take all six of you with me. There’s eight, and I can only take six. I’m going to have to put two of you in the terminal, got it? I’m _leaving_ you behind.”

You want them to fucking rip your heart from you. Here you are. You, with your goddamn ideals and sneering judgment, doing exactly what you have criticised others for doing. What your father, in a way, did to you. This is ridiculous, and immature. You’re the human, the owner, their master, _you’re_ the one leaving _them_ , and you’re losing it like somebody fucking died.

God.

You almost want to leave all of them, just send them all to the terminal and get it over with. You can’t _choose_. You _can’t_. But if you keep the eight of them you’re going to lose them all . They were here first. They shouldn’t be replaced by someone new.

But Casey’s a baby and you’re going to need Ditto.

You can’t remember the last time you cried so much, so often. How it it possible to be deliriously happy one day, and feel like _this_ the next. Guilt gnaws at your heart like a Weedle burrowing into an apple.

Pokémon are intelligent creatures. Few are even capable of communicating telepathically. Allegedly Slowking can actually speak (you’ll believe it when you see it). Point is, they understand you. It’s you, stupid humans that you are, that are not able to understand them.

Like you said, your father isn’t completely wrong.

Something passes between them, a mix of body language and vocalisations. Shouty bellows. Nubby clubs him succinctly with her bone. Malik lashes his tail from side to side in annoyance, eyes narrow slits.

Mutiny? You don’t even mind, you’ll just sit here with sunlight kissing the nape of your neck and your hands furled in the soft grass.

Six faces swivel in your direction. Their intent is obvious: _listen_. Scratch hunkers down and grates out a low thrumming noise at you. You blink back at him. It’s Nubby who comes up to you and crawls into your lap. She’s about the size of a small child, but so much heavier, her little paws rough as they pat at your wet cheeks.

You put your hands on her flanks. “What? What is it?”

Nubby has never been very demonstrative in her vocalisations, and she is not now either. But she looks at you, eyes as dark yours yet so different, while one of her fingers taps out a deliberate rhythm on your cheek.

“I don’t understand.”

There’s a noise like a little sigh whuffling within her bone mask. She presses her face to yours. The weathered bone is hard and unyielding against the bridge of your nose and forehead, but her eyes are bright through the empty sockets. Claws prickle at your temples ever so gently.

And then she backs away. Deliberately. She backs away through the others until there’s two little groups, clearly apart. Scratch goes with her and squats, long sickled arms loosely crossed.

Krabby, Shouty, Regisickle and Malik on your side. Nubby and Scratch beyond arm’s reach.

“Oh”— you shake your head —“no, no, no, come back, that’s not— Scratch. Come here.”

There’s definite tenseness is his insectile limbs, but he does not come towards your outstretched hand. It would be as easy as taking his pokéball.

You don’t.

“You insipid duo of backstabbing assholes, come here. We’re going to figure this out, we’re going to- to make this work. Nubby. Here.”

You’re still pleading when Kanaya finds you. 

*

The day you leave you’re crying again. Big, hideous ugly tears this time.

Scratch has to be so _so_ careful to come close and you can only cradle the huge spade of his head in your arms and smear snot and misery all over it like you’ve discovered a cutting-edge new medium for graffiti. Nubby’s almost too heavy to lift, but you make it work anyway.

Nearby John’s almost vibrating with the urge to come and try to fix it, he’s awful at letting sadness run its course. If he can’t joke it away he wants to pile hugs on it like he’s a human bandaid. Both Dave and Rose have a froirmm grip on the scruff of his shirt. Dave’s face is carefully made blank, which somehow makes it worse because he’s being so careful.

Kanaya looks openly heartbroken for you. “I’ll take care of them,” she says, when you’ve melted into a puddle with an arm around Nubby and Scratch each. “I swear.”

“I know,” you murmur. “Thanks for letting them stay.”

It’s infinity better than a terminal, hypocritical and sorry motherfucker that you are. But it definitely means that you can’t see them whenever. They’ll be here, helping Kanaya. Their pokéballs have been put into storage, setting them, in essence, free.

But they’ll be waiting for you to come back.

Now that the floodgates have been opened, you can’t seem to stop. You cry hugging Kanaya, you cry hugging Rose. You’re still crying twenty minutes later, in a wrung out hiccups, as you finally continue your journey. Route 7 cleaves through fields of flowers under your dragging feet.

You’re too tired to be humiliated and too tired to push John away when he turns to you with urgency. “CanIhugyou _now_?”

“Dude,” Dave whispers.

“Sure, knock yourself ou—oof.”

John catapults himself at you like a human cannonball of comfort. It’s already too warm to be this close, you’re overheated from bawling like a newborn Cubone (Nubby, oh, oh) and Liv is twelve pounds of floof at your shoulder and then Dave’s murmuring ‘alright operation Karkels sandwich is t a go’ and draping himself against your back.

You’re shorter than both of them, and somehow both their faces are stacked on top of your head, John must be eating hair when he says: “Group hug!” and begins rocking the lot of you from left to right.

Your face is wet. Someone is wiping your tears. Liv is sucking at your earlobe, teeth and all. You’ve never felt like this in your whole, short, yet endless miserable fucking life. You hold on tight.

“We’re coming back to visit,” Dave tells you. “I totally forgot to tell Rose she’s a big gross lesbian and a meanie.”

“Yes!” John agrees. “And I’m going to evolve Skylark _so hard_ so you can come and see them whenever!”

“So hard,” Dave echoes, and you think they’re knocking heads together. You can tell by the vast hollow echoes up there.

“Shut your squawk gapers and hug me harder, you spineless snotnuggets.”

“So hard,” Dave says again, but helps John rock you all the same.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter they hurtle head-along into action again! Dirk is still waiting, but first... the battle mansion. Which familiar face will the see next?


End file.
